ROBERT 

UNDERWOOD 

JOHNSON 

T   Ml 


POEMS 


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SAINT-GAUDENS:  AN  ODE 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 


BY 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON 

BEING  THE  FOURTH  EDITION  OF 
HIS  "COLLECTED  POEMS" 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  CO. 
1914 


Copyright,  1892,  1897,  1902,  1908,  1910,  1913,  by 
ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON 


Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


THE    DE  VINNE    PRESS 


CONTENTS 


1.  THE  WINTER  HOUR,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Invocation :  To  the  Gorse i 

The  Winter  Hour 3 

With  Interludes: 

Hearth-Song. 

The  Lost  Rose. 

A  Madonna  of  Dagnan-Bouveret. 

Love  in  Italy. 

A  Spring  Prelude 28 

Before  the  Blossom 30 

Love  in  the  Calendar 32 

A  September  Violet 34 

September's  Eve 36 

October 38 

In  November 39 

On  Nearing  Washington 41 

"As  a  Bell  in  a  Chime  " 42 

In  the  Dark 44 

Good  Measure  of  Love 47 

Noblesse  Oblige 49 

On  a  Candidate  Accused  of  Youth.    (Theodore 

Roosevelt:    1886.) 50 


305231 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Washington  Hymn.     (Sung  at  the  laying  of 
the  corner-stone  of  the  Washington  Me 
morial  Arch,  New  York,  May  30,  1890.)   .  51 
To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.     (On  the  Death  of 

Garfield.) 53 

Illusions 55 

To-morrow 56 

Inscription  for  a  Burial  Urn 57 

Quality 58 

Luck  and  Work 60 

On  a  Great  Poet's  Obscurity 61 

Written  in  Emerson's  Poems 62 

Amiel.     (The  "Journal  Intime.") 64 

"The  Guest  of  the  Evening."     (Read  at  the 
dinner  to  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  on  his 

birthday,  February  8,  1884.) 65 

Salvini 66 

For  Tears 67 

Apprehensions 68 

Browning  at  Asolo 69 

At  Sea 71 

Moods  of  the  Soul 72 

I.     In  Time  of  Victory. 
II.     In  Time  of  Defeat. 

To  Leonora.    (At  her  Debut,  October  1 8,  1 89 1 .)  75 

Herbert  Mapes.     (Drowned  August  23,  1891.)  76 

A  Wish  for  New  France 77 

Divided  Honors.     (Written   for  the  dinner  to 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

James    Whitcomb    Riley  at  Indianapolis, 

October  18,  1888.) 78 

A  Tracer  for  J***  B******** 83 

II.  SONGS  OF  LIBERTY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Apostrophe  to  Greece.  (Inscribed  to  the 
Greek  People  on  the  Seventy-fifth  Anni 
versary  of  their  Independence.)  ....  93 

Song  of  the  Modern  Greeks 103 

To  the  Housatonic  at  Stockbridge       .     .     .     .105 

Farewell  to  Italy 108 

A  Chopin  Fantasy 112 

In  Tesla's  Laboratory 116 

The  Wistful  Days 117 

"Love  Once  was  Like  an  April  Dawn  "  .     .     .118 

An  Irish  Love-Song 119 

"Oh,  Waste  no  Tears  " 121 

Her  Smile 123 

Song  for  the  Guitar 124 

Ursula 125 

A  Dark  Day 126 

The  Surprised  Avowal 127 

The  Blossom  of  the  Soul 129 

"I  Journeyed  South  to  Meet  the  Spring  "   .     .130 
PARAPHRASES    FROM  THE  SERVIAN  OF   ZMAI 
IOVAN  IOVANOVICH  (after  Literal  Transla 
tions  by  Nikola  Tesla) : 
Introductory  Note  on  Zmai  by  Mr.  Tesla     .  135 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Three  Giaours 141 

Luka  Filipov 146 

A  Mother  of  Bosnia 150 

The  Monster 154 

Two  Dreams 157 

Mysterious  Love 159 

The  Coming  of  Song 161 

Curses 163 

A  Fairy  from  the  Sun-shower 164 

"  Why,"  you  ask,  "  has  not  the  Servian  Per 
ished?  "        165 

"  I  Begged  a  Kiss  of  a  Little  Maid  "    .     .     .166 

Why  the  Army  Became  Quiet 167 

The  Gipsy  Praises  his  Horse 168 

The  Voice  of  Webster 177 

Hands  across  Sea 191 

III.  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

POEMS  OF  ITALY: 

Italian  Rhapsody 207 

The  Hour  of  Awe 215 

Titian's  Two  Loves,  in  the  Borghese  .     .     .     .217 

POEMS  ON  PUBLIC  EVENTS: 

The  Listening  Sword 221 

Dewey  at  Manila 222 

The  Welcome  of  Our  Tears 227 

An  English  Mother 229 


CONTENTS  ix 

PACK 

"The  White  Man's  Burden" 232 

On  Reading  of  Atrocities  in  War 234 

The  Keeper  of  the  Sword 236 

Remember  Waring ! 237 

POEMS  OF  HEART  AND  SOUL: 

To  One  Born  on  the  Last  Day  of  November    .  243 

Music  and  Love 245 

At  a  Concert 246 

After  the  Song  (To  E.  J.  W.) 247 

Song  for  Youth 248 

Song  of  Remembrance 250 

Star-Song 251 

Song  for  a  Wedding-day 252 

With  a  Toast  to  the  Bride 253 

To  June 255 

A  Lover's  Answer 256 

The  Guest 257 

To  One  who  Complained  of   a  Lover's  Per 
sistence    258 

Interpreters 259 

The  Tryst 260 

"  Love  the  Conqueror  Came  to  Me".     .     .     .  261 

The  Stronger  Summons 263 

The  Flower  of  Fame 264 

The  Dread  before  Great  Joy 266 

Reincarnation 269 

Premonitions 270 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IV.  MOMENTS  OF  ITALY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

MOMENTS  OF  ITALY  : 

To  One  Who  Never  Got  to  Rome  ( Edmund 

Clarence  Stedman ) 2^c 

The  Spanish  Stairs 279 

The  Name  Writ  in  Water 280 

Spring  at  the  Villa  Conti 282 

Como  in  April 284 

The  Vines  that  Missed  the  Bees 285 

The  Poet  in  the  Children's  Eyes 286 

POEMS  OF  MORAL  BEAUTY  OR  CONFLICT  : 

To  Dreyfus  Vindicated 287 

The  Absent  Guest  (Edward  MacDowell)     .     .291 

The  Czar's  Opportunity 293 

The  Lover  of  his  Kind 2oc 

Together '  29? 

Something  in  Beauty  Binds  us  to  the  Good      .  298 

On  a  Lady's  Chatelaine  Mirror 300 

The  Scar ^OI 

Compelling  Love 302 

The  Marching-Song 305 

Recognition ^O8 

A  Message  Back  to  Youth 310 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  : 

Daphne 313 

The  True  Bibliophile 315 

"  Pelleas  et  Melisande  " 318 

Waters  of  Song 319 

V.  SAINT-GAUDENS  :  AN  ODE 

Saint-Gaudens 325 

VI.  LATER  POEMS  OF  OCCASION: 

A  Memory  of  Brittany 343 

Pretty  Kitty  Pickering 346 

To  a  Maple  Leaf  in  Autumn 347 

The  Message  of  Fulton.     (Acrostic,   read    at 
the  launching  of  the  new  "Clermont,"  July 

10,  1909.) 349 

The  Call  to  the  Colors 350 

To  New  York,  Awakening.    ( Read  at  the  din 
ner  of  the  Aldine  Club  to  District-Attorney 
Charles  S.   Whitman,   November  22,  1912.)  352 
To  One  Who  Despaired  of  the  Republic     .     .354 
The  Vision  of  Gettysburg  (1863-1913)  .      .      .356 


I 

THE   WINTER   HOUR 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


TO    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 


INVOCATION:   TO   THE   GORSE 


"When  the  gorse  is  out  of  bloom,  then  love  is  out  of  season. "- 

ENGLISH  PROVERB. 


HARDY  gorse,  that  all  year  long 
Blooms  upon  the  English  moor, 
Let  me  set  thee  at  the  door 

Of  this  little  book  of  song. 

When  the  dreary  winter  lowers, 
Vainly  dost  thou  seek  a  fellow 
To  thy  blossom  brave  and  yellow — 

Color  of  the  cheeriest  flowers. 

Thou  of  love  perennial  art 

Such  a  symbol  that  they  say : 
"When  no  gorse-bloom  greets  the  day, 
There  's  no  love  in  any  heart." 


INVOCATION 

Thus  all  days  are  Love's  and  thine. 

Spicy  flower  on  thorny  branch, 

In  Love's  service  thou  art  stanch — 

Wilt  thou,  wilding,  enter  mine? 


THE   WINTER  HOUR  3 


THE  WINTER   HOUR 


OF  all  the  hours  of  day  or  night 
Be  mine  the  winter  candle-light, 
When  Day's  usurpers  of  Love's  throne  — 
Fame,  Pride,  and  tyrant  Care — are  flown, 
And  hearts  are  letters  of  hid  desire 
Yielding  their  secrets  at  the  fire. 
Now  beauty  in  a  woman's  face 
Glows  with  a  sympathetic  grace, 
And  friend  draws  closer  unto  friend, 
Like  travelers  near  a  journey's  end; 
In  casual  talk  some  common  hope 
Finds  fresher  wing  and  farther  scope ; 
The  eye  has  language  fit  to  speak 
Thoughts  that  by  day  't  were  vain  to  seek 
Out  of  their  silence ;  and  the  hand 
Grasps  with  a  comrade's  sure  demand. 
Pile  high  the  winter's  cheer  and  higher, — 
The  world  is  saved,  not  lost,  by  fire! 


THE   WINTER  HOUR 


HEARTH- SONG 

WHEN  November's  night  comes  down 
With  a  dark  and  sudden  frown, 
Like  belated  traveler  chill 
Hurrying  o'er  the  tawny  hill,— 

Higher,  higher 

Heap  the  pine-cones  in  a  pyre! 
Where  's  a  better  friend  than  fire? 

Song  's  but  solace  for  a  day; 
Wine  's  a  traitor  not  to  trust; 
Love  's  a  kiss  and  then  away; 
Time  's  a  peddler  deals  in  dust. 

Higher,  higher 
Pile  the  driftwood  in  a  pyre ! 
Where  's  a  firmer  friend  than  fire? 

Knowledge  was  but  born  to-night; 
Wisdom  's  to  be  born  to-morrow; 
One  more  log — and  banish  sorrow, 
One  more  branch — the  world  is  bright. 

Higher,  higher 

Crown  with  balsam-boughs  the  pyre! 
Where  's  an  older  friend  than  fire? 


THE   WINTER  HOUR 


II 


O  SILENT  hour  that  sacred  is 

To  our  sincerest  reveries!  — 

When  peering  Fancy  fondly  frames 

Swift  visions  in  the  oak-leaved  flames; 

When  Whim  has  magic  to  command 

Largess  and  lore  from  every  land, 

And  Memory,  miser-like,  once  more 

Counts  over  all  her  hoarded  store. 

Now  phantom  moments  come  again 

In  a  long  and  lingering  train, 

As  not  content  to  be  forgot  — 

(O  Death!  when  I  remember  not 

Such  moments,  may  my  current  run, 

Alph-like,  to  thy  oblivion  ! ) : 

The  summer  bedtime,  when  the  sky  — 

The  boy's  first  wonder — gathers  nigh, 

And  cows  are  lowing  at  the  bars, 

And  fireflies  mock  the  early  stars 

That  seem  to  hang  just  out  of  reach  — 

Like  a  bright  thought  that  lacks  of  speech; 

The  wistful  twilight's  tender  fall, 

When  to  the  trundle  comes  the  call 


THE   WINTER  HOUR 

Of  fluting  robins,  mingling  sweet 
With  voices  down  the  village  street; 
The  drowsy  silence,  pierced  with  fear 
If  evil-omened  owl  draw  near, 
Quaking  with  presage  of  the  night; 
The  soft  surrender  when,  from  sight 
Hid  like  a  goddess  in  a  cloud, 
Comes  furtive  Sleep,  with  charm  endowed 
To  waft  the  willing  child  away 
Far  from  the  margin  of  the  day, 
Till  chanticleer  with  roystering  blare 
Of  reveille  proclaims  the  glare. 
Remember?  —  how  can  one  forget 
(Since  Memory  's  but  Affection's  debt) 
Those  faery  nights  that  hold  the  far, 
Soft  rhythm  of  the  low  guitar, 
When  not  more  sweetly  zephyr  blows 
And  not  more  gently  Afton  flows 
Than  the  dear  mother's  voice,  to  ease 
The  hurts  of  day  with  brook  and  breeze, 
To  soothing  chords  that  haunt  the  strings 
Like  shadows  of  the  song  she  sings ! 
And  as  the  music's  lullaby 
Locks  down  at  last  the  sleepy  eye, 


THE   WINTER  HOUR 

Green  visions  of  a  distant  hill 

The  fancy  of  the  singer  fill, 

While  spreads  Potomac's  pausing  stream, 

And  moonlight  sets  her  heart  adream 

Of  that  old  time  when  love  was  made 

With  valentine  and  serenade. 

Now,  too,  come  bedtimes  when  the  stair 
Was  never  climbed  alone. — Ah,  where, 
Beyond  the  midnight  and  the  dawn, 
Has  now  that  other  footstep  gone? 
Does  sound  or  echo  more  reveal 
When  thirty  winters  may  not  steal 
That  still-returning  tread, — that  voice, 
That  made  the  timid  child  rejoice 
Against  the  terrors  of  the  wind, — 
That  tender  tone  that  smoothed  the  mind? 
Great  heart  of  pity !  it  was  then 
God  seemed  a  father,  denizen 
Of  His  own  world,  not  chained  to  feet 
Of  some  far,  awful  judgment-seat. 
Then  was  revealed  the  reverent  soul 
Whom  creed  nor  doubt  could  from  the 
goal 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Of  goodness  swerve;  who  need  not  bend 
To  be  of  each  just  cause  the  friend. 
Of  whose  small  purse  and  simple  prayer 
The  neediest  had  the  largest  share; 
Beloved  of  child,  and  poor,  and  slave, 
Nor  yet  more  lovable  than  brave; 
Whom  place  could  not  allure,  nor  pelf, — 
To  all  men  generous  save  himself; 
Whose  passion  Freedom  was  —  with  no 
Heat-lightning  rage  devoid  of  blow, 
But  as  a  bridegroom  might  defend 
His  chosen,  to  the  furious  end. 

Still  other  moments  come  apace, 
Each  with  fond,  familiar  face: 
The  pleasures  of  an  inland  boy 
To  whom  great  Nature  was  a  toy 
For  which  all  others  were  forsook  — 
A  spirit  blithesome  as  a  brook 
Whose  song  in  ripples  crystalline 
Doth  flow  soft  silences  between; 
The  dormant  soul's  slow  wakenings 
To  dimly-apprehended  things; 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

The  sudden  vision  in  the  night 
As  by  a  conflagration's  light; 
The  daily  miracle  of  breath ; 
The  awe  of  battle  and  of  death ; 
The  tears  of  grief  at  Sumter's  gun, 
The  tears  of  joy  when  war  was  done, 
And  all  the  fainting  doubt  that  masked 
As  hope  when  news  of  war  was  asked. 
And  oh!  that  best-remembered  place, 
That  perfect  moment's  melting  grace, — 
The  look,  the  smile,  the  touch,  the  kiss, 
The  halo  of  self-sacrifice, — 
When  Nature's  passion,  bounteous  June, 
To  Love's  surrender  added  boon, 
As  though  the  heir  of  every  age 
Had  come  into  his  heritage. 

THE  LOST  ROSE 

THERE  was  a  garden  sweet  and  gay, 
Where  rarest  blossoms  did  delay 
The  look  that  Fanny  bent  to  find 
The  flower  fairest  to  her  mind, 
Till,  at  her  word,  I  plucked  for  her 
A  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster. 


10  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

The  red  did  with  the  white  agree, 

Like  passion  blent  in  purity; 

And  as  she  blushed  and  blushed  the  more, 

Till  she  was  like  the  bloom  she  bore, 

I  said,  "  Dear  heart,  I  too  prefer 

The  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster." 

'T  is  years  ago  and  miles  away ! 
For  oh !   nor  rose  nor  maid  could  stay 
To  freshen  other  Junes.     And  yet 
How  few  who  do  not  quite  forget !  — 
Or  know  to  which  the  words  refer : 
"  Sweet  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster." 

In  vain,  when  roses  do  appear 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  year, 
I  search  the  tangle  and  the  town 
Among  the  roses  of  renown, 
And  still  the  answer  is  — "  Oh,  sir, 
We  know  no  York-and-Lancaster." 

But  ah,  my  heart,  it  knows  the  truth, 
And  where  was  sown  that  seed  of  youth ; 
And  though  the  world  have  lost  the  rose, 
There  's  still  one  garden  where  it  grows  — 
Where  every  June  it  breathes  of  her, 
My  rose  of  York-and-Lancaster. 


THE   WINTER  HOUR  II 


III 


Now  call  the  Muses'  aid  to  flout 

The  bleak  storm's  roaring  rage  without; 

And  bring  it  hail,  or  bring  it  snow, 

It  shall  be  Love's  delight  to  show 

What  Fire  and  two  defenders  dare 

Against  the  legions  of  the  air, 

Whose  sharpest  arrows  shall  not  find 

Cleft  in  the  armor  of  the  mind. 

WTiy  dread  we  Winter's  deep  distress, 

His  pale  and  frigid  loneliness, 

When  here  at  hand  are  stored,  in  nooks, 

All  climes,  all  company,  in  books! 

A  moving  tale  for  every  mood, 

Shakspere  for  all, —  the  fount  and  food 

Of  gentle  living, —  Fancy's  link 

'Twixt  what  we  are  and  what  we  think, — 

Fellow  to  stars  that  nightly  plod 

Old  Space,  yet  kindred  to  the  clod. 

Choose  now  from  his  world's  wizard  play 

What  is  frolicsome  and  gay; 

'T  was  for  such  evening  he  divined 

Not  Juliet  but  Rosalind. 


12  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Put  the  ^oried  sorrow  down, — 

Not  to-night,  with  Jove-like  frown, 

Shall  the  mighty  Tuscan  throw 

Fateful  lightnings  at  his  foe, 

Nor  Hawthorne  bend  his  graceful  course 

To  follow  motive  to  its  source. 

No,  let  gladness  greet  the  ear: 

Cervantes'  wit,  or  Chaucer's  cheer, 

Or  Lamb's  rich  cordial,  pure  and  sweet, 

Where  aromatic  tinctures  meet; 

Or  princely  Thackeray,  whose  pages 

Yield  humor  wiser  than  the  sages; 

Or,  set  in  cherished  place  apart, 

Poets  that  keep  the  world  in  heart: 

Milton's  massive  lines  that  pour 

Like  waves  upon  a  windward  shore; 

Wordsworth's  refuge  from  the  crowd  — 

The  peace  of  noon-day's  poised  cloud; 

That  flaming  torch  a  jealous  line 

Passed  on  to  Keats  from  Beauty's  shrine; 

Visions  of  Shelley's  prophet-soul, 

That,  seeing  part,  could  sing  the  whole, 

Most  like  a  lark  that  mounts  so  high 

He  sees  not  earth  but  from  the  sky. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  13 

And  of  the  bards  who  in  the  grime 
And  turmoil  of  our  changing  time 
Have  kept  the  faith  of  men  most  pure 
The  three  whose  harps  shall  last  endure : 
Browning,  Knight  of  Song, — so  made 
By  Nature's  royal  accolade, — 
Whose  lines,  as  life-blood  full  and  warm, 
Search  for  the  soul  within  the  form, 
And  in  the  treasures  of  whose  lore 
Is  Love,  Love,  ever  at  the  core; 
Tennyson,  of  the  silver  string, 
Wisest  of  the  true  that  sing, 
And  truest  singer  of  the  wise; 
And  he  whose  "  stairway  of  surprise n 
Soars  to  an  outlook  whence  appear 
All  best  things,  fair,  and  sure,  and  near. 


IV 


UPON  the  wall  some  impress  fine 
Of  Angelo's  majestic  line  — 
Seer  or  sibyl,  dark  with  fate; 
Near,  and  all  irradiate, 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Bellini's  holy  harmonies, 

Bringing  the  gazer  to  his  knees ; 

One  group  to  hint  from  what  a  height 

Titian  with  color  dowers  the  sight; 

A  pageant  of  Carpaccio, 

Flushed  with  an  autumn  sunset-glow ; 

Then,  of  Luini's  pensive  race, 

The  Columbine's  alluring  grace; 

And,  echo  of  an  age  remote, 

Beato's  pure  and  cloistered  note. 

And  be  not  absent  from  the  rest 

Some  later  flame  of  beauty  (blest 

As  a  new  star),  lest  it  be  said 

That  Art,  that  had  its  day,  is  dead. 

Let  Millet  speak  in  melting  tone  — 

Voicing  the  life  that  once  was  stone, 

Ere  Toil  had  found  another  dawn 

Of  Bethlehem  at  Barbizon. 

Nor  is  it  winter  while  Dupr6 

With  daring  sunlight  leads  the  way 

Into  the  woodland  rich  and  dim; 

Who  love  the  forest,  follow  him; 

And  they  who  lean  the  ear  to  reach 

The  whispering  breath  of  Nature's  speech, 


THE    WINTER  HOUR 

May  with  Daubigny  wait  the  night 
Beside  a  lake  of  lambent  light 
And  marged  darkness  —  at  the  hour 
(Soul  of  the  evening !)  when  the  power 
Of  man,  that  morn  with  empire  shod, 
Is  shattered  by  a  thought  of  God! 
And  ah,  one  more:  we  will  not  wait 
For  Death  to  let  us  call  him  great, 
But,  taking  counsel  of  the  heart 
Stirred  by  his  pure  and  perfect  art, 
Among  the  masters  make  a  place 
For  Dagnan's  fair  Madonna's  face. 


A  MADONNA  OF  DAGNAN-BOUVERET 

OH,  brooding  thought  of  dread ! 
Oh,  calm  of  coming  grief! 
Oh,  mist  of  tears  unshed 
Above  that  shining  head 
That  for  an  hour  too  brief 
Lies  on  thy  nurturing  knee ! 
How  shall  we  pity  thee, 
Mother  of  sorrows  —  sorrows  yet  to  be ! 


1 6  THE   WINTER  HOUR 

That  babyhood  unknown 
With  all  of  bright  or  fair 
That  lingers  in  our  own 
By  every  hearth  has  shone. 
Each  year  that  light  we  share 
As  Bethlehem  saw  it  shine. 
Be  ours  the  comfort  thine, 
Mother  of  consolations  all  divine ! 


NOR  be  the  lesser  arts  forgot 
On  which  Life  feeds  and  knows  it  not,- 
That  everywhere  from  roof  to  portal 
Beauty  may  speak  of  the  immortal: 
Forms  that  the  fancy  over-fill; 
Colors  that  give  the  sense  a  thrill; 
Soft  lights  that  fall  through  opal  glass 
On  mellow  stuffs  and  sturdy  brass; 
Corners  of  secrecy  that  invite 
Comfort,  the  handmaid  of  Delight; 
The  very  breath  of  sculptures  old 
Held  poised  within  a  perfect  mold; 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  17 

A  dainty  vase  of  Venice  make, 

Fashioned  for  its  one  rose's  sake  — 

Ay,  winter's  miracle  of  flowers 

To  cheat  the  mood  and  mask  the  hours: 

Love's  velvet-petaled  pledge  of  June, 

That,  on  the  wings  of  Passion  strewn, 

Made  courtly  Persia  conqueror 

Of  thrice  the  world  she  lost  in  war;  — 

Jonquils,  that  Tuscan  sunshine  hold 

Within  their  happy  hearts  of  gold;  — 

Narcissus,  such  as  still  are  found 

By  Marathon's  mountain-envied  mound — 

Food  of  the  soul,  well  bought  with  bread, 

As  sage  Hippocrates  hath  said. 

All  these  perchance  shall  faintly  yield 

Odors  from  some  Sicilian  field 

Where  young  Theocritus  deep-strayed 

In  blooms  celestial  —  where  his  shade, 

Haunting  his  storied  Syracuse, 

Finds  balm  for  his  neglected  Muse. 

Add  wanton  smilax  to  entwine 

Your  Dancing  Faun  or  God  of  Wine, 

And  you  shall  summon  in  a  band 

The  joys  of  every  summer  land. 


1 8  THE   WINTER  HOUR 


VI 


BUT  there  's  a  vision  stirs  the  heart 

Deeper  than  books  or  flowers  or  art, — 

When  Music,  mistress  of  the  mind, 

Lender  not  borrower  from  the  Wind, 

Rival  of  Water  and  of  Light, 

Adds  her  enchantment  to  the  Night. 

What  thoughts  !  what  dreams  !  what  ecstasies 

When  heart  and  fingers  touch  the  keys! 

Across  what  gulf  of  fate  Love  springs 

To  Love,  if  Love  caress  the  strings! 

By  this  mysterious  amulet 

One  shall  remember  or  forget; 

When  words  and  smiles  and  tears  shall  fail, 

The  might  of  Music  shall  prevail; 

Shall  move  alike  the  wise  and  weak; 

All  dialects  alike  shall  speak; 

Outglow  the  rainbow  to  the  doomed, — 

Consuming  all,  be  unconsumed; 

Shall  save  a  nation  in  its  throes, 

Luring  with  concord  grappling  foes; 

Shall  madden  thus,  yet  shall  be  glad 

(Oh,  paradox!)  to  soothe  the  mad. 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  19 

This  rhythmic  language  made  to  reach 
Beyond  the  reticence  of  speech — 
Bland  as  the  breeze  of  May  it  sighs, 
Or  rolls  reverberant  till  the  skies 
Tremble  with  majesty!     Not  the  mote 
Most  hid  of  all  creation's  rote 
But  holds  some  message  that  shall  be 
Transmuted  into  harmony. 
Already,  since  the  lisping-time 
When  music  was  but  chant  or  chime, 
What  spirits  have  to  man  been  lent 
From  God's  discordless  firmament!  — 
Beethoven,  brother  of  the  Nine, 
But  with  a  birthright  more  divine, — 
Whose  harmonies  that  heavenward  wend 
Wings  to  the  laden  spirit  lend 
Until,  serenely  mounting  higher, 
It  melts  into  the  starry  choir; 
Wagner,  in  whom  the  Passions  meet 
To  throw  themselves  at  Music's  feet, — 
Whose  murmurings  have  charm  to  wring 
From  Love  the  secret  of  the  Spring, — 
And  in  whose  clamor  sounds  the  siege 
Of  heaven  when  Lucifer  was  liege. 


20  THE   WINTER  HOUR 

Handel,  whose  aspirations  seem 

Like  steps  of  gold  in  Jacob's  dream; 

Mozart,  simplest  of  the  great, 

Heir  of  Melody's  estate, 

Who  did  blithe  pipes  of  Pan  prolong 

And  heighten  to  a  seraph  song. 

Schumann,  rare  poet,  with  a  lyre 

Stringed  in  Imagination's  fire; 

And  oh,  that  one  of  human  strain! — 

Chopin,  beloved  child  of  pain, 

To  whom  the  whole  of  Love  was  known- 

Marvel,  and  mystery,  and  moan, 

The  joy  secure,  the  jealous  dart 

Deep-ambushed  in  the  doubting  heart, 

And  all  the  perilous  delight 

That  waits  on  doubt,  as  dawn  on  night. 

Ah,  who  shall  wake  the  charm  that  lies 
Past  what  is  written  for  the  eyes 
In  such  a  scroll?     The  poet's  need 
Is  that  a  poet's  heart  should  read. 
Happy  the  winter  hour  and  fleet 
When  flame  and  waiting  passion  meet 


THE    WINTER  HOUR  21 

In  her  pure  fire  whose  chords  betray 
The  St.  Cecilia  of  our  day ! 
Oh,  velvet  of  that  Saxon  hand 
So  lately  iron  to  command!  — 
Like,  at  the  shower's  sudden  stop, 
The  softness  of  the  clinging  drop. 
What  tender  notes  the  trance  prolong 
Of  that  famed  rhythmic  cradle-song! 
How  faery  is  her  woven  spell 
Of  minuet  or  tarantelle ! 
Who  would  return  to  earth  when  she 
Transports  us  with  a  rhapsody! 
And  when  in  some  symphonic  burst 
Of  joy  her  spirit  is  immersed, 
That  path  celestial  fain  to  share, 
We  vow  to  breathe  but  noble  air! 


VII 

WARMED  with  melody  like  wine, 
Lighted  by  the  friendly  shine 
Of  the  rich-replenished  hearth, 
Let  us  drink  of  wine  and  mirth 


22  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

While  waning  evening's  aftermath 
Grows  pleasant  as  a  winding  path 
With  wit's  surprises  and  the  tale 
Adventurous,  spreading  sudden  sail 
For  Arcady  and  hallowed  haunts 
Along  the  shores  of  old  Romance: 
Now  shall  fare  the  fancy  forth 
To  pillared  grottoes  of  the  north, 
Where  circling  waters  come  again 
Like  thoughts  within  a  sleepless  brain; 
Or,  coursing  down  a  softer  coast 
Whose  beauty  is  the  Old  World's  boast, 
Shall  pause  for  words  while  memory's  flame 
Kindles  at  Taormina's  name. 

And  now  in  shifting  talk  appears 
Pomp  of  cities  clad  with  years: 
Gay  or  gloomy  with  her  skies, 
Gray  Paris  like  an  opal  lies 
Sparkling  on  the  front  of  France. 
Avignon  doth  hold  a  lance 
In  a  tourney-list  with  Nimes. 
Fair  Seville  basks  in  helpless  dream 


THE   WINTER  HOUR  „  23 

Of  conquest,  as  in  caged  air 

Dreams  the  tamed  lion  of  his  lair. 

Regal  Genoa  still  adorns 

Her  ancient  throne;  and  Pisa  mourns. 

Now  we  traverse  holy  ground 

Where  three  miracles  are  found: 

One  of  beauty — when  with  dyes 

Of  her  own  sunset  Venice  vies. 

One  of  beauty  and  of  power — 

Rome,  the  crumbled  Babel-tower 

Of  centuries  piled  on  centuries — 

Scant  refuge  from  Oblivion's  seas 

That  swept  about  her.     And  the  third?  — 

O  heart,  fly  homeward  like  a  bird, 

And  look,  from  Bellosguardo's  goal, 

Upon  a  city  with  a  soul! 

Who    that    has    climbed    that    heavenly 

height 

When  all  the  west  was  gold  with  light, 
And  nightingales  adown  the  slope 
To  listening  Love  were  lending  hope, 
Till  they  by  vesper  bells  were  drowned, 
As  though  by  censers  filled  with  sound — 


24  THE    WINTER  HOUR 

Who — who  would  wish  a  worthier  end 
To  every  journey?  or  not  blend 
With  those  who  reverently  count 
This  their  Transfiguration  Mount? 


LOVE  IN  ITALY 

THEY  halted  at  the  terrace  wall; 

Below,  the  towered  city  lay; 
The  valley  in  the  moonlight's  thrall 

Was  silent  in  a  swoon  of  May. 
As  hand  to  hand  spoke  one  soft  word 

Beneath  the  friendly  ilex-tree, 
They  knew  not,  of  the  flame  that  stirred, 

What  part  was  Love,  what  Italy. 

They  knew  what  makes  the  moon  more  bright 

Where  Beatrice  and  Juliet  are, — 
The  sweeter  perfume  in  the  night, 

The  lovelier  starlight  in  the  star; 
And  more  that  glowing  hour  did  prove, 

Beneath  the  sheltering  ilex-tree,— 
That  Italy  transfigures  Love, 

As  Love  transfigures  Italy. 


THE   WINTER  HOUR  25 


VIII 

AND  thou,  who  art  my  winter  hour— 
Book,  picture,  music,  friend,  and  flower — 
If  on  such  evening,  dear,  I  trace 
Paths  far  from  Love's  divine  embrace, 
Wandering  till  long  absence  grows 
Into  brief  death — less  death's  repose — 
Let  me  be  missed  with  love  and  cheer, 
As  miss  we  those  of  yesteryear 
With  whom  we  thought  (beguiling  hope!) 
To  stray  together  down  Life's  slope, 
While  Age  came  on  like  gentle  rain. 
They  who  but  ceased  their  joyous  strain — 
Where  may  the  limit  to  the  sea 
Of  their  bereaving  silence  be? 
Yet  sorrow  not:  we  may  prolong, 
If  not  the  singer's  voice,  the  song. 
And  if  beyond  the  glorious  strife 
Of  this  good  world,  I  tread  new  life, 
Reluctant,  but,  by  Heaven's  aid, 
With  infant  instinct  unafraid, 


26  THE   WINTER  HOUR 

May  Memory  plead  with  thee  to  save 
Out  of  my  song  its  happier  stave. 
From  the  Dark  Isthmus  let  not  gloom 
Deepen  the  shadows  of  thy  room. 
For  me  no  ban  of  smile  or  jest: 
Life  at  its  full  is  holiest. 
Let  all  thy  days  have  pure  employ 
In  the  high  sanity  of  joy; 
Be  then,  as  now,  the  friend  of  all, 
Thy  heart  a  thronged  confessional, 
A  fount  of  sympathy,  a  store 
Of  jewels  at  an  open  door. 

Here  do  I  falter,  love,  for  fear 

Of  sacrilege  to  what  is  dear. 

Not  now — not  here;  some  luminous  time, 

Some  perfect  place,  some  fortunate  rhyme 

May  yield  that  sacrificial  part 

That  poets  fitly  give  to  Art. 

Ever  the  moment  most  elate 

Must  for  a  speech  sufficient  wait; 

Only  the  happiest  know,  alas! 

How  soundless  is  the  brimming  glass. 


THE  WINTER  HOUR  27 

But,  though  Love  need  nor  praise  nor  oath, 

And  silence  oft  is  firmer  troth, 

Yet  know  that  if  I  come  no  more, 

'Tis  fault  of  sail,  or  sea,  or  shore, 

Not  of  the  pilot, —  for  the  heart 

Sees  its  way  homeward  from  the  start. 

If  Death  have  bond  that  Love  can  break, 

It  shall  be  broken  for  thy  sake. 

If  spirits  unto  mortals  teach 

Some  rudiment  of  subtler  speech, 

My  presence  shall  about  thee  stay 

To  prompt  the  word  it  cannot  say. 

So  when,  with  late  farewell  and  slow, 
The  guests  into  the  night  shall  go, 
Each  pulse  by  sympathy  more  warm, 
Forgetting  the  forgotten  storm, 
And  thou  alone  into  the  blaze, 
Thrilled  with  the  best  of  life,  shalt  gaze 
With  hunger  for  the  life  divine, 
Oh,  be  that  blessed  moment  mine!  — 
With  thee,  who  art  my  winter  hour, 
Book,  picture,  music,  friend,  and  flower. 


28  A  SPRING  PRELUDE 


A  SPRING   PRELUDE 

O  TARDY  April,  is  thy  full  choir  here  ? 
The  redbreast,  picket  of  the  swarming  spring, 
Whistles  a  sudden  chirrup  of  alarm 
Before  his  level  flight;  and  soft  at  eve 
His  melody,  on  grass  half-robin  high, 
Falls  like  a  vesper's  throbbings  from  aloft. 
The  sparrow  tempts  the  turf  to  faster  growth 
With  her  coy  nesting,  while  her  happy  mate, 
High  in  the  promise-reddened  maple-top, 
O'er-bubbles  with  ecstasies  of  hoarded  song. 
The  mellow  tunings  of  the  oriole's  flute, 
Rich  as  his  coat,  foretell  his  summer  joy 
And  pitch  the  key  of  gladness  for  the  year. 
Here  is  the  bluebird,  best  of  mates  and  sires, 
And  pewee,  restless  as  a  lover's  fear, 
With  cousin  phoebe,  bleating  tearfully. 
The  humblebee,  that,  nectar-drunk,  shall  soon 
Linger  within  the  sybaritic  flower, 


A   SPRING  PRELUDE  29 

Feeds  his  impatience  at  the  cautious  bud; 
And  from  the  furrows'  wet  and  windy  reach, 
Where  March  but  lately  swung  his  icy  scythe, 
Ripples  the  velvet  air  about  the  cheek, 
Laden  with  faintest  chorusings,  as  though 
The  brimming  silence  overflowed  in  sound. 

O  tardy  April,  is  the  full  choir  here  ? 

Alas  for  me!  thou  hast  forgot  to  bring 

Out  of  the  South  one  childish,  bird-like  voice, 

Whose  absence  doth  delay  the  year,  and  makes 

My  songs  and  thine  but  preludes  till  she  come. 


30  BEFORE   THE  BLOSSOM 


BEFORE  THE   BLOSSOM 

IN  the  tassel-time  of  spring 
Love  's  the  only  song  to  sing; 

Ere  the  ranks  of  solid  shade 
Hide  the  bluebird's  flitting  wing, 

While  in  open  forest  glade 
No  mysterious  sound  or  thing 

Haunt  of  green  has  found  or  made, 
Love  's  the  only  song  to  sing. 

Though  in  May  each  bush  be  dressed 
Like  a  bride,  and  every  nest 

Learn  Love's  joyous  repetend, 
Yet  the  half-told  tale  is  best 

At  the  budding, —  with  its  end 
Much  too  secret  to  be  guessed, 

And  its  fancies  that  attend 
April's  passion  unexpressed. 


BEFORE   THE  BLOSSOM  31 

Love  and  Nature  communing 
Gave  us  Arcady.     Still  ring  — 

Vales  across  and  groves  among  — 
Wistful  memories,  echoing 

Pan's  far-off  and  fluty  song. 
Poet!  nothing  harsher  sing; 

Be,  like  Love  and  Nature,  young 
In  the  tassel-time  of  spring. 


32  LOVE  IN  THE  CALENDAR 


LOVE   IN   THE    CALENDAR 

WHEN  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 

Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 

And  every  sound  's  a  tune; 
When  Nature  fills  a  fuller  cup, 

And  hides  with  green  the  gray, — 
Then,  lover,  pluck  your  courage  up 

To  try  your  fate  in  May. 

Though  proud  she  was  as  sunset  clad 

In  Autumn's  fruity  shades, 
Love  too  is  proud,  and  brings  (gay  lad!) 

Humility  to  maids. 
Scorn  not  from  nature's  mood  to  learn, 

Take  counsel  of  the  day: 
Since  haughty  skies  to  tender  turn, 

Go  try  your  fate  in  May. 


LOVE   IN  THE   CALENDAR  33 

Though  cold  she  seemed  as  pearly  light 

Adown  December  eves, 
And  stern  as  night  when  March  winds  smite 

The  beech's  lingering  leaves; 
Yet  Love  hath  seasons  like  the  year, 

And  grave  will  turn  to  gay, — 
Then,  lover,  harken  not  to  fear, 

But  try  your  fate  in  May. 

And  you  whose  art  it  is  to  hide 

The  constant  love  you  feel: 
Beware,  lest  overmuch  of  pride 

Your  happiness  shall  steal. 
No  longer  pout,  for  May  is  here, 

And  hearts  will  have  their  way; 
Love  's  in  the  calendar,  my  dear, 

So  yield  to  fate  —  and  May! 


'34  A   SEPTEMBER    VIOLET 


A  SEPTEMBER  VIOLET 

FOR  days  the  peaks  wore  hoods  of  cloud, 

The  slopes  were  veiled  in  chilly  rain; 
We  said:  It  is  the  Summer's  shroud, 
And  with  the  brooks  we  moaned  aloud, — 
Will  sunshine  never  come  again  ? 

At  last  the  west  wind  brought  us  one 
Serene,  warm,  cloudless,  crystal  day, 
As  though  September,  having  blown 
A  blast  of  tempest,  now  had  thrown 
A  gauntlet  to  the  favored  May. 

Backward  to  Spring  our  fancies  flew, 
And,  careless  of  the  course  of  Time, 

The  bloomy  days  began  anew. 

Then,  as  a  happy  dream  comes  true, 
Or  as  a  poet  finds  his  rhyme, — 


A   SEPTEMBER    VIOLET  35 

Half  wondered  at,  half  unbelieved, — 

I  found  thee,  friendliest  of  the  flowers ! 
Then  Summer's  joys  came  back,  green-leaved, 
And  its  doomed  dead,  awhile  reprieved, 
First  learned  how  truly  they  were  ours. 

Dear  violet!  Did  the  Autumn  bring 
Thee  vernal  dreams,  till  thou,  like  me, 

Didst  climb  to  thy  imagining  ? 

Or  was  it  that  the  thoughtful  Spring 
Did  come  again,  in  search  of  thee  ? 


36  SEPTEMBER'S  EVE 


SEPTEMBER'S  EVE 


'T  is  Nature's  temple,  and  the  day 
Is  full  of  worship  as  of  light. 
A  sigh  from  now  and  't  will  be  night; 
The  lordly  vision  will  not  stay. 
With  dusky  incense  throbs  the  gray 
Half  dome  of  sky.     A  cloistered  note 
Of  lingering  bird-song  sounds  remote 
As  the  last  echo  of  a  hymn 
Sung  in  recessional,  cold  and  dim. 
I  worship,  but  as  though  the  praise 
Must  pass  through  Nature's  priestly  ways, 
For  God  doth  seem  as  lone  and  far 
As  yonder  uncompanioned  star, 
September's  Eve. 


SEPTEMBER'S  EVE  37 


II 


ALONG  the  mountain's  altar  crest 
The  russet  deepens  in  the  West, 
As  when  to  richer  chords  the  close 
Of  noble  music  softly  flows. 
Now  speed  my  footsteps  through  the  dark, 
I  see  my  leaping  hearth,  and  hark ! 
Th'  expectant  children's  view-halloo 
Rings  out  a  melody  of  cheer. 
The  rushing  feet  approach;  I  hear 
The  lavish  welcome  panting  through. 
How  bright  the  sudden  stars  appear 
In  friendly  groups !     Now  God  is  near, 
For  Love  is  in  her  temple,  too, 
September's  Eve. 


38  OCTOBER 


OCTOBER 

SOFT  days  whose  silver  moments  keep 
The  constant  promise  of  the  morn, 
When  tired  equinoctials  sleep, 
And  wintry  winds  are  yet  unborn: 
What  one  of  all  the  twelve  more  dear— 
Thou  truce  and  Sabbath  of  the  year? 

More  restful  art  thou  than  the  May, 
And  if  less  hope  be  in  thy  hand, 
Some  cares  't  were  grief  to  understand 
Thou  hidest,  in  the  mother's  way, 
With  light  and  mist  of  fairy-land 
Set  on  the  borders  of  the  day. 

And  best  of  all  thou  dost  beguile 
With  color, — friendliest  thought  of  God! 
Than  thine  hath  heaven  itself  a  smile 
More  rich  ?    Are  feet  of  angels  shod 
With  peace  more  fair  ?     O  month  divine ! 
Stay,  till  thy  tranquil  soul  be  mine. 


IN  NOVEMBER  39 


IN   NOVEMBER 

HERE  is  the  watershed  of  all  the  year, 
Where,  by  a  thought's  space,  thoughts  do  start  anear 
That  fare  most  widely  forth :  some  to  the  mouth 
Of  Arctic  rivers,  some  to  the  mellow  South. 

The  gaunt  and  wrinkled  orchard  shivers  'neath 
The  blast,  like  Lear  upon  the  English  heath, 
And  mossy  boughs  blow  wild  that,  undistressed, 
Another  spring  shall  hide  the  cheerful  nest. 

All  things  are  nearer  from  this  chilly  crown, — 
The  solitude,  the  white  and  huddling  town; 
And  next  the  russet  fields,  of  harvest  shorn, 
Shines  the  new  wheat  that  freshens  all  the  morn. 

From  out  the  bursting  milkweed,  dry  and  gray, 
The  silken  argosies  are  launched  away, 
To  mount  the  gust,  or  drift  from  hill  to  hill 
And  plant  new  colonies  by  road  and  rill. 


40  IN  NOVEMBER 

Ah,  wife  of  mine,  whose  clinging  hand  I  hold, 
Shrink  you  before  the  New,  or  at  the  Old? 
And  those  far  eyes  that  hold  the  silence  fast — 
Look  they  upon  the  Future,  or  the  Past? 


ON  NEAR  ING   WASHINGTON  41 


ON   NEARING  WASHINGTON 

CITY  of  homes  and  in  my  heart  my  home ! 
(Though  other  streets  exact  a  grudging  fee) : 
How  leap  my  pulses  when  afar  I  see 
The  dawn  creep  whitening  down  thy  solemn  dome! 

For  now  my  care-restricted  steps  may  roam 
Thy  urban  groves  —  a  forest  soon  to  be  — 
Where,  like  thy  shining  river,  placid,  free, 
Contentment  dwells  and  beckons  me  to  come. 

Ah,  city  dear  to  lovers! — that  dost  keep 

For  their  delight   what   Mays   and  what  Novem 
bers  !  — 

Kindling  the  flame,  and  if  it  ever  sleep, 
New-lighting  it  within  the  breathing  embers; 
Dear  even  in  their  sorrow!  for  when  they  weep 
'T  is  for  rare  joys,  scarce  known  till  Love  remem 
bers. 


42  "AS  A  BELL  IN  A    CHIME" 


"AS  A   BELL  IN   A   CHIME" 

As  a  bell  in  a  chime 

Sets  its  twin-note  a-ringing, 

As  one  poet's  rhyme 
Wakes  another  to  singing, 

So,  once  she  has  smiled, 

All  your  thoughts  are  beguiled 
And  flowers  and  song  from  your  childhood  are  bringing. 

Though  moving  through  sorrow 
As  the  star  through  the  night, 

She  needs  not  to  borrow, 
She  lavishes,  light. 

The  path  of  yon  star 

Seemeth  dark  but  afar: 
Like  hers  it  is  sure,  and  like  .hers  it  is  bright 


"AS  A  BELL  IN  A   CHIME"  43 

Each  grace  is  a  jewel 

Would  ransom  the  town, 
Her  speech  has  no  cruel, 

Her  praise  is  renown; 
'T  is  in  her  as  though  Beauty, 
Resigning  to  Duty 
The  scepter,  had  still  kept  the  purple  and  crown. 


44  IN  THE  DARK 


IN  THE    DARK 

AT  dusk,  when  Slumber's  gentle  wand 
Beckons  to  quiet  fields  my  boy, 

And  day,  whose  welcome  was  so  fond, 
Is  slighted  like  a  rivaled  toy, — 

When  fain  to  follow,  fain  to  stay, 

Toward  night's  dim  border-line  he  peers, 

We  say  he  fears  the  fading  day: 
Is  it  the  inner  dark  he  fears? 

His  deep  eyes,  made  for  wonder,  keep 
Their  gaze  upon  some  land  unknown, 

The  while  the  crowding  questions  leap 
That  show  his  ignorance  my  own. 

For  he  would  go  he  knows  not  where, 
And  I  —  I  hardly  know  the  more; 

Yet  what  is  dark  and  what  is  fair 
He  would  to-night  with  me  explore. 


IN  THE  DARK  45 

Upon  the  shoals  of  my  poor  creed 
His  plummet  falls,  but  cannot  rest; 

To  sound  the  soundless  is  his  need, 
To  find  the  primal  soul  his  quest. 

In  vain  these  bird-like  flutterings, 
As  when  through  cages  sighs  the  wind: 

My  clearest  answer  only  brings 

New  depths  of  mystery  to  his  mind, — 

Vague  thoughts,  by  crude  surmise  beset, 
And  groping  doubts  that  loom  and  pass 

Like  April  clouds  that,  shifting,  fret 

With  tides  of  shade  the  sun-wooed  grass. 

O  lonely  soul  within  the  crowd 
Of  souls !  O  language-seeking  cry ! 

How  black  were  noon  without  a  cloud 
To  vision  only  of  the  eye ! 

Sleep,  child!  while  healing  Nature  breaks 
Her  ointment  on  the  wounds  of  Thought; 

Joy,  that  anew  with  morning  wakes, 

Shall  bring  you  sight  it  ne'er  has  brought. 


46  IN  THE  DARK 

Lord,  if  there  be,  as  wise  men  spake, 
No  Death,  but  only  Fear  of  Death, 

And  when  Thy  temple  seems  to  shake 
T  is  but  the  shaking  of  our  breath, — 

Whether  by  day  or  night  we  see 

Clouds  where  Thy  winds  have  driven  none, 

Let  unto  us  as  unto  Thee 
The  darkness  and  the  light  be  one. 


GOOD  MEASURE  OF  LOVE  47 


GOOD   MEASURE   OF   LOVE 

ONE  twilight  was  there  when  it  seemed 
New  stars  beneath  young  eyelids  gleamed; 

In  vain  the  warning  clock  would  creep 
Anear  the  hour  of  beauty-sleep; 

In  vain  the  trundle  yearned  to  hold 
Far-Eyes  and  little  Heart-of-Gold ; 

And  love  that  kisses  are  the  stuff  of 
At  last  for  once  there  was  enough  of, 

As  though  of  all  Affection's  round 

The  fond  climacteric  had  been  found  — 

Each  childish  fancy  heaping  more, 
Like  spendthrift  from  a  miser-store, 


48  GOOD  MEASURE    OF  LOVE 

Till  stopped  by  hug  and  stayed  by  kiss — 
The  sweet  contention  ran  like  this: 

"  How  much  do  I  love  you  ?  "  (I  remember  but  part 
Of  the  words  of  the  troth  of  this  lover) 

"I  love  you" — he  said — "why — I  love  you — a  heart 
Brimful  and  running  over. 

"  I  love  you  a  hundred ! "  said  he,  with  a  squeeze. 

"  A  thousand ! "  said  she,  as  she  nestled ; 
"  A  million ! "  he  cried  in  triumphant  ease 
While  she  with  the  numbers  wrestled. 

"Aha!  I  have  found  it!"  she  shouted,  "aha!" 
(The  red  to  the  soft  cheeks  mounting) 

"I  love  you  —  I  love  you  —  I  love  you,  Papa, 
Over  the  last  of  the  counting ! " 


NOBLESSE  OBLIGE  49 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE 

WHAT  is  diviner  than  the  peace  of  foes ! 

He  conquers  not  who  does  not  conquer  hate, 
Or  thinks  the  shining  wheels  of  heaven  wait 
On  his  forgiving.     Dimmer  the  laurel  shows 

On  brows  that  darken;  and  war- won  repose 
Is  but  a  truce  when  heroes  abdicate 
To  Huns  —  unfabling  those  of  elder  date 
Whose  every  corse  a  fiercer  warrior  rose. 

O  ye  that  saved  the  land!     Ah  yes,  and  ye 

That  mourned  its  saving!     Neither  need  forget 
The  price  our  destiny  did  Of  both  demand  — 

Toil,  want,  wounds,  prison,  and  the  lonely  sea 
Of  tears  at  home.    Oh,  look  on  these.    And  yet- 
Before  the  human  fail  you — quick!  your  hand! 


SO      ON  A   CANDIDATE  ACCUSED  OF  YOUTH 


ON  A  CANDIDATE  ACCUSED  OF  YOUTH* 

"  Too  young  "  do  they  call  him  ?   Who  say  it  ?  Not  they 
Who  have  felt  his  hard  stroke  in  the  civic  affray, 
When  elders,  whom  veteran  fighters  had  taught 
Till  they  knew  all  the  rules  by  which  battles  are  fought, 
Fumbled  weakly  with  weapons  his  foresight  had  sought. 

Who  thinks  of  his  youthfulness  ?     Surely  not  they 
Who  stood  at  his  side  through  the  wavering  day, 
And  knew  the  quick  vision,  the  planning  exact 
Of  parry  and  thrust,  till  the  stout  helmet  cracked 
'Neath  the  bold  and  true  blow  that  is  better  than  tact. 

Yea,  the  strength  of  the  arm  is  the  strength  of  its  use, 
Not  its  years;  and  when  fighting  is  on,  better  choose 
Not  the  rust-eaten  sword  from  the  library  wall, 
But  the  new  blade  that  leaps  in  its  sheath  at  the  call. 
Ask  the  foe  by  which  weapon  he  fears  most  to  fall! 

*  Theodore  Roosevelt,  1886. 


WASHINGTON  HYMN  51 


WASHINGTON   HYMN 

SUNG  AT   THE    LAYING   OF  THE    CORNER-STONE    OF   THE 

WASHINGTON    MEMORIAL  ARCH,  NEW  YORK,   MAY 

30,  1890,  TO   THE  AIR  OF  THE   AUSTRIAN 

HYMN    BY   HAYDN 

PRAISE  to  Thee,  O  God  of  Freedom, 

Praise  to  Thee,  O  God  of  Law, 
Thee  the  goal  of  Israel's  dreaming, 

Thee  the  flame  that  Moses  saw; 
Light  of  every  patriot  dungeon, 

Home  of  exile,  hope  of  slave, 
Loved  by  just  and  feared  by  tyrant, 

Comrade  of  the  true  and  brave. 

Would  we  pray  for  new  defenders, 
Thou  art  with  us  ere  we  call; 

Thou  wilt  find  new  ranks  of  heroes 
For  the  heroes  yet  to  fall. 


52  WASHINGTON  HYMN 

Back  we  look  across  the  ages, 
Forward  Thou  beyond  the  sun, 

Yet  no  greater  gift  we  ask  Thee 
Than  another  Washington. 


TO  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  53 


TO   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   GARFIELD,    SEPTEMBER,    l88l 

POET  of  every  soul  that  grieves 
O'er  death  untimely:  whose  lament 

Lights  up  the  farthest  Dark,  and  leaves 
A  bow  across  the  heavens  bent : 

Dead  in  an  upper  room  doth  lie 

A  nation's  hero;  can  it  be 
Thy  ear  too  faintly  hears  the  cry 

The  West  wind  utters  to  the  sea  ? 

Thy  Concord  paean  may  have  caught 
Glow  from  an  elder  Garfield's  name: 

What  fitter  aureole  could  be  sought 
For  such  a  son  than  such  a  flame! 


54  TO  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Bard  of  the  Human:  since  we  yearn 
For  that  one  manly  heart  in  vain, 

Forgive  the  reverent  eyes  that  turn 
Toward  the  low  stream  in  Concord  plain. 

Warned  by  the  favoring  touch  of  Death, 
Thy  Nunc  Dimittis  thou  hast  sung; 

No  more  the  thunder's  stormy  breath 
Shall  sweep  the  lyre  with  lightnings  strung. 

And  yet,  for  him,  remains — unsigned, 
Unspoken — all  thy  noble  praise, 

When  (port  more  worth  the  cruise !)  thou  find 
His  sail  beyond  the  final  haze; 

But  us? O  Seer,  to  whose  gift 

Looms  large  the  Future's  better  part, 

What  other  prophet  voice  shall  lift 
This  burden  from  the  people's  heart! 


ILLUSIONS  55 


ILLUSIONS 

Go  stand  at  night  upon  an  ocean  craft, 
And  watch  the  folds  of  its  imperial  train 
Catching  in  fleecy  foam  a  thousand  glows  — 
A  miracle  of  fire  unquenched  by  sea. 
There  in  bewildering  turbulence  of  change 
Whirls  the  whole  firmament,  till  as  you  gaze, 
All  else  unseen,  it  is  as  heaven  itself 
Had  lost  its  poise,  and  each  unanchored  star 
In  phantom  haste  flees  to  the  horizon  line. 

What  dupes  we  are  of  the  deceiving  eye ! 
How  many  a  light  men  wonderingly  acclaim 
Is  but  the  phosphor  of  the  path  Life  makes 
With  its  own  motion,  while  above,  forgot, 
Sweep  on  serene  the  old  unenvious  stars ! 


56  TO-MORROW 


TO-MORROW 

ONE  walks  secure  in  wisdom-trodden  ways 
That  lead  to  peaceful  nights  through  happy  days 
Health,  fame,  friends,  children,  and  a  gentle  wife, 
All  Youth  can  covet  or  Experience  praise, 
And  Use  withal  to  crown  the  ease  of  life. 

Ah,  thirsting  for  another  day, 
How  dread  the  fear 

If  he  but  knew  the  danger  near ! 

Another,  with  some  old  inheritance 
Of  Fate,  unmitigated  yet  by  Chance, — 
Condemned  by  those  he  loves,  with  no  appeal 
To  his  own  fearful  heart,  that  ever  pants 
For  newer  circlings  of  the  cruel  Wheel ! 

Ah,  thirsting  for  another  day, 
What  need  of  fear 

If  he  but  knew  the  help  that  's  near? 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BURIAL   URN  57 


INSCRIPTION   FOR  A   BURIAL   URN 

FIRE  is  older  than  Earth, 

Swaddled  her  at  her  birth, 

Shall  be  her  windy  shroud. 

Fear  whispers,  Earth  with  fire  endowed 

Is  all  of  Life:  but  the  Soul's  Desire 

Is  something  other  than  earth  and  fire, 

And  cannot  mold  or  burn. 

Of  this  is  Honor  made,  and  Truth, 

And  Love  that  shall  out-light  the  star. 

Go  find  when  these  began  their  youth, 

Then  guess  their  age's  farthest  bar ; 

But  look  not  for  it  in  grave  or  urn. 


58  QUALITY 


QUALITY 


TAKE,  ere  the  bee  hath  sipped, 

The  courtly,  maiden-lipped, 

And  dewy  oleander, 

And  breathe,  and  dream,  and  wander. 

But  ah!  take  not  another, 

Lest  fragrance  fragrance  smother. 


ii 


What  all  your  wreathed  wine 
To  what  I  taste  of  mine  ? 
See  the  spilled  jewels  run, 
Red  as  an  autumn  sun!  — 
Each  holding  warm  and  clear 
The  vintage  of  a  year. 


QUALITY  59 


III 

Stranger,  thy  passing  word 
My  waiting  heart  hath  stirred; 
My  life  to  thee  I  lend! 
This  hour  thou  art  my  friend, 
And  could  not  dearer  be 
Loved  an  eternity. 


60  LUCK  AND   WORK 


LUCK  AND  WORK 

WHILE  one  will  search  the  season  over 
To  find  the  magic  four-leaved  clover, 
Another,  with  not  half  the  trouble, 
Will  plant  a  crop  to  bear  him  double. 


ON  A   GREAT  POETS  OBSCURITY  6l 


ON  A  GREAT  POET'S  OBSCURITY 

WHAT  means  his  line  ?    You  say  none  knows  ? 

Yet  one  perhaps  may  learn — in  time: 
For,  sure,  could  Life  be  told  in  prose 

There  were  no  need  at  all  for  rhyme. 

Alike  two  waters  blunt  the  sight  — 
The  muddy  shallow  and  the  sea; 

Here  every  current  leads  aright 
To  deeps  where  lucent  wonders  be. 


62  WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS 

WRITTEN   IN   EMERSON'S  POEMS 
(FOR  A  CHILD) 

MIDNIGHT  or  morning,  eve  or  noon, 
Torn  March  or  clover-scented  June, — 

Whene'er  you  stand  before  this  gate, 
'T  will  open  —  if  but  not  too  soon 

You  knock,  if  only  not  too  late. 

Well  shall  it  be  if,  boyhood  gone, 
A  boy's  delight  you  still  may  own 

To  play  the  dawn-new  game  of  life,— 
If  what  is  dreamed  and  what  is  known 

In  your  still-startled  heart  have  strife. 

Ere  you  have  banished  Mystery, 
Or  throned  Distrust,  or  less  shall  be 

Stirred  by  the  deep  and  fervent  line 
Which  is  the  poet's  sign  and  fee: 

Be  this  your  joy  that  now  is  mine. 


WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  POEMS  63 

When  comes  the  hour,  be  full  and  bright 
Your  lamp,  as  the  wiser  virgins'  light! 

Choose  some  familiar,  shrine-like  nook, 
And  offer  up  in  prayer  the  night 

Upon  the  altar  of  this  book. 

Always  new  earth,  new  heavens  lie 
The  apocalyptic  spirit  nigh: 

If  such  be  yours,  oh,  while  you  can, 
Bid  unregretted  Youth  good-bye, 

For  morning  shall  proclaim  you  Man. 


64  AMIEL 


AMIEL 
(THE  "JOURNAL  INTIME") 

A  FEW  there  are  who  to  the  troubled  soul 
Can  lay  the  ear  with  that  physician-art 
Which  by  a  whispered  accent  in  the  heart 
Follows  the  lurking  treason  that  hath  stole 

Into  the  citadel; — a  few  whose  scroll 
Of  warning  bears  our  safety, — is  a  chart 
Of  our  unsounded  seas,  and  doth  impart 
Courage  to  hold  the  spirit  to  its  goal. 

Of  such  is  Amiel,  lonely  as  a  saint, — 

Or  as  an  eagle  dwelling  on  peaks,  in  shade 
Of  clouds,  which  now  he  cleaves  for  one  wide  look 

At  the  green  earth,  now  for  a  circle  faint 

Nearer  the  sun.    Once  more  has  Truth  betrayed 
Secrets  to  Sorrow  not  in  the  sibyl's  book. 


"THE  GUEST  OF  THE  EVENING"  65 


"THE    GUEST   OF  THE    EVENING" 

(READ  AT  THE  DINNER  TO  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER, 
ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY  FEBRUARY  8,  1884) 

GOOD  actions  are  a  fruit  so  ripe  and  rare 
They  bear  not  fingering.     Let  me  then  beware 
To  touch  with  venturous  hand  this  curving  branch, 
Nor  lean  too  heedlessly  against  the  tree 
Thus,  at  its  prime,  o'erladen  heavily 
With  golden  harvest  full  and  sweet  and  stanch, — 
Lest  I  by  some  rude  shock,  at  this  light  hour, 
Bring  down  the  Virtues  in  a  mellow  shower. 

To  drop  the  figure,  friends, — let  's  be  content 

The  guest  shall  fancy  less  than  we  have  meant; 

Speak  not  too  closely  of  his  special  good, 

That  we  are  here  tells  more  than  trumpets  could. 

Our  friendship  holds  his  virtues  as  the  light 

Holds  the  hid  rainbow — storm  but  makes  them  bright; 

The  modest  veil  they  wear  I  may  not  raise 

Lest  he  should  blush  to  hear,  and  I  to  praise. 


66  SALVINI 


SALVINI 

"DEAD  is  old  Greece,"  they  mourned  ere  yet  arose 
This  Greek — this  oak  of  old  Achaian  graft 
Seed-sown   where    westward  tempests  wept  and 

laughed, 

As  now  when  some  great  gust  of  heaven  blows 
From  lair  levantine.     How  the  giant  grows!— 
Not  to  lone  ruin  of  a  withered  shaft, 
But  quaffing  life  in  every  leafy  draught, — 
Fathered  by  Storm  and  mothered  by  Repose. 

Nay,  doubt   the   Greeks   are   gone  till,  this  green 

crest 

In  splendor  fallen,  round  the  wrack  shall  be 
Prolonged,  like  memories  of  a  noble  guest, 

The  phantom  glory  of  the  actor's  day. 
Then,  musing  on  Olympus,  men  shall  say 
The  myth  of  Jove  took  rise  from  lesser  majesty. 


FOR   TEARS  67 


FOR  TEARS 

SOME  birches  from  the  winter  snow  unbend, 
And  some  lie  prone  the  happy  summer  long: 

Is  grief  but  weakness  ?    May  it  be,  blithe  friend, 
The  heavier  burden  stays  but  on  the  strong? 


68  APPREHENSIONS 


APPREHENSIONS 

SEVEN  days  we  sought  the  horizon  line,  elate, 
Without  a  sea-born  doubt  of  things  to  come, 
Then  on  the  eighth,  upon  the  sill  of  home, 

A  fog,  not  of  the  sea,  fell  with  a  weight 

Upon  our  spirits.  Where  was  noon's  rich  freight 
Of  summer  cheer,  the  darkness  spoke  of  doom, 
Till  thoughts  familiar  did  such  dole  assume 

We  could  but  cling  before  the  coming  fate. 

In  port — what  greeting?    From  beloved  lips 
The  same  "All  's  well!"  that  could  not  charm 

our  woe 
Chanted  an  ocean  litany  against  harm; 

Our  happiness  swung  forth  from  fear's  eclipse. 
Alas !  upon  a  fearless  friend  the  blow 
Fell  like  first  lightning  from  long-gathered  storm. 


BROWNING  AT  A  SOLO  69 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

(INSCRIBED  TO  HIS  FRIEND  MRS.  ARTHUR  BRONSON) 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved, 

High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue !  — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves.     O  tranquil  scene! 
Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  between  ? 

See!   yonder  's  his  Venice — the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others :   the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 


7<>  BROWNING  AT  A  SOLO 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred  row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he!  — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in   ...   ah,  me! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the  bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 

When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart   would  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss 
And  dream  of  Asolo  ever  again  ? 

"  Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan  ? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

"  LA  MURA,"  ASOLO,  June  3,  1892. 


AT  SEA  71 


AT  SEA 

SOME  things  are  undivined  except  by  love — 
Vague  to  the  mind,  but  real  to  the  heart, 
As  is  the  point  of  yon  horizon  line 
Nearest  the  dear  one  on  a  foreign  shore. 


72  MOODS  OF  THE  SOUL 

MOODS   OF  THE   SOUL 
I. —  IN  TIME  OF  VICTORY 

As  soldiers  after  fight  confess 

The  fear  their  valor  would  not  own 

When,  ere  the  battle's  thunder  stress, 
The  silence  made  its  mightier  moan: 

Though  now  the  victory  be  mine, 
'T  is  of  the  conflict  I  must  speak, 

Still  wondering  how  the  Hand  Divine 
Confounds  the  mighty  with  the  weak. 

To-morrow  I  may  flaunt  the  foe — 
Not  now;  for  in  the  echoing  beat 

Of  fleeing  heart-throbs  well  I  know 
The  bitterness  of  near  defeat. 

O  friends!  who  see  but  steadfast  deeds, 
Have  grace  of  pity  with  your  praise. 

Crown  if  you  must,  but  crown  with  weeds,- 
The  conquered  more  deserve  your  bays. 


MOODS  OF  THE  SOUL  73 

No,  praise  the  dead!  —  the  ancestral  roll 
That  down  their  line  new  courage  send, 

For  moments  when  against  the  soul 
All  hell  and  half  of  heaven  contend. 


II. —  IN  TIME  OF  DEFEAT 

YES,  here  is  undisguised  defeat — 
You  say,  "  No  further  fight  to  lose." 

With  colors  in  the  dust,  't  is  meet 

That  tears  should  flow  and  looks  accuse. 

I  echo  every  word  of  ruth 

Or  blame:  yet  have  I  lost  the  right 
To  praise  with  you  the  unfaltering  Truth, 

Whose  power — save  in  me — has  might? 

Another  day,  another  man: 

I  am  not  now  what  I  have  been; 

Each  grain  that  through  the  hour-glass  ran 
Rescued  the  sinner  from  his  sin. 


74  MOODS  OF  THE  SOUL 

The  Future  is  my  constant  friend; 

Above  all  children  born  to  her 
Alike  her  rich  affections  bend — 

She,  the  unchiding  comforter. 

Perhaps  on  her  unsullied  scroll 

(Who  knows?)  there  may  be  writ  at  last 

A  fairer  record  of  the  soul 

For  this  dark  blot  upon  the  Past. 


TO  LEONORA  75 

TO   LEONORA 

(AT   HER   DEBUT,    OCTOBER    l8,    1891) 

FAIR  sister  of  the  Muses,  't  is  the  hour, 

Dearest  of  all,  when  thou  dost  wed  thy  Art. 
No  bride  more  radiant  a  more  single  heart 
Gave  to  her  chosen — and  what  noble  dower! 

Graces  akin  to  forest  and  to  flower; 
A  spirit  blithe  as  dawn;  a  soul  astart; 
A  nature  rich,  to  keep  thee  what  thou  art — 
A  star  of  beauty  and  a  flame  of  power. 

Now,  while  the  tranced  throng  turn  each  to  each 
Sharing  their  joy,  think'st  thou  on  those  young  years 
When  many  a  day  and  night  was  unbeguiled 

Save  by  this  love  that  lightened  toil  and  tears? 
Thy  music  melts  upon  the  verge  of  speech; 
Fame  greets  the  artist  —  I,  the  constant  child. 


76  HERBERT  MAPES 


HERBERT  MAPES 
(DROWNED  AUGUST  23,  1891) 

LAST  night,  what  kingdom  on  his  brow! 

What  mellow  music  in  his  voice! 

What  strength  to  make  the  eye  rejoice! 
What  life!  what  flush  of  youth!  .  .  .  and  now! 

O  brow  dethroned !     O  muffled  bell 
Of  speech  !     O  net  too  loosely  wove ! 
O  sunken  freight  of  hope  and  love ! 

Come  back  till  we  have  said  farewell! 


A    WISH  FOR  NEW  FRANCE  77 


A  WISH   FOR  NEW  FRANCE 
(FRAGMENT) 

FOR  her  no  backward  look 
Into  the  bloody  book 

Of  kings.     Thrice-rescued  land ! 
Her  haunted  graves  bespeak 
A  nobler  fate :  to  seek 
In  service  of  the  world  again  the  world's  command. 

She,  in  whose  skies  of  peace 
Arise  new  auguries 

To  strengthen,  cheer,  and  guide  — 
When  nations  in  a  horde 
Draw  the  unhallowed  sword, 
O  Memory,  walk  a  warning  specter  at  her  side! 


78  DIVIDED  PIONORS 


DIVIDED   HONORS* 

NATURE  had  late  a  strife  with  Art 
To  prove  which  bears  the  worthier  part 
In  poets'  fame.     The  words  ran  high 
While  Justice,  friend  to  both,  stood  by 
To  name  the  victor. 

Nature  rose, 

Impressive  in  her  artless  pose, 
And  in  a  few  words  fitly  chose 
(Confined  to  generalities) 
Pleaded  the  nature  of  the  thing — 
That  singers  born  to  sing  must  sing, 
That  it  could  not  be  otherwise; 
Spoke  of  the  poet's  "  flight  of  wing," 
His  "  flow  of  song,"  his  "  zephyr  sighs," 
And  hid  in  trope  and  allegory 
A  whole  campaign  of  a  priori. 

Then  Art  began  to  plead  her  cause; 
Said  Nature's  windy  words  had  flaws — 

*  Written  for  the  dinner  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley  at  Indiana 
polis,  October  18,  1888. 


DIVIDED  HONORS  79 

That  e'en  the  larklet  soaring  high 
Must  surely  once  have  learned  to  fly 
And  eke  to  sing.     Moreover,  Song 
Is  something  more  than  baby-prattle; 
Or  plow-boy's  carol  to  the  cattle; 
Or  love's  acrostic — though  it  be 
Faultless  (at  one  extremity); 
Or  verse  that  school-girls  spoil  a  day  for, 
Found  good  to  print,  but  not  to  pay  for. 
This  well  she  with  herself  debated, 
And,  lacking  points,  elaborated, 
And,  like  a  lawyer  closely  pressed, 
Naught  having  proved,  assumed  the  rest. 

But  Justice,  knowing  how  to  prick 

The  airy  globes  of  rhetoric, 

Said,  "  Friends,  your  theories  are  ample, 

Yet  light  upon  the  case  we  need, 

And,  me  judice,  she  '11  succeed 

Who  shall  present  the  best  example." 

A  moment  both  were  still  as  death, 

Then  shouted  "Shakespeare!"  in  a  breath; 


8o  DIVIDED  HONORS 

And  then,  confounded  by  each  other 

(While  pondering  moderated  pother), 

Ran  down  the  list  of  English  charmers, 

As  in  a  fugue  of  two  performers: 

'Twas  "Chaucer!"  "Philip  Sidney!"  "Donne!" 

"  George  Herbert!"  "  Milton!"  "Tennyson!" 
And,  quick  as  either  one  would  name  them, 
The  other  would  be  sure  to  claim  them! — 
Till  Justice — blindfold  all  these  years 
Because  she  can't  believe  her  eyes — 
Convinced  that  hearing,  too,  belies, 
Now  pulled  her  bandage  o'er  her  ears. 
Then  Nature,  in  affected  candor, 
Renounced  all  ownership  in  Landor, 
And  said :  "  Let 's  both  make  fair  returns ; 
I  '11  give  you  Keats — you  give  me  Burns." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Art,  "  you  have  a  fit  man, — 
Your  whole  contention  lies  in  Whitman." 
Then,  she  not  wanting  from  her  rival 
A  gift  of  what  was  hers  by  right, 
At  once  there  followed  a  revival 
Of  acrimony — till  in  fright 
Pale  Justice,  with  a  sly  suggestion 
Of  dining,  moved  the  previous  question. 


DIVIDED  HONORS  81 

But  Nature,  conscious  of  her  force, 
Had  in  reserve  a  shrewd  resource, 
And,  while  the  judgment  hung  uncertain, 
She  quickly  drew  aside  a  curtain, 
And,  full  of  confidence,  said  dryly : 
"  I  rest  my  case  on  Whitcomb  Riley ! 
And  further  to  enforce  my  right, 
He  has  consented  to  recite, 
That  all  may  see  by  how  large  part 
He  has  possession  of  my  heart." 


Five  minutes !  and  the  wager  's  o'er : 
A  ballad,  homely,  simple,  true  — 
And  then,  and  ever  after,  you 
See  Nature  as  you  'd  ne'er  before. 
First  is  the  kind  eye's  twinkling  ray 
So  lit  with  human  sympathy 
That,  kindled  by  its  flash,  you  say 
Humor  's  the  true  democracy. 
The  next  note  's  deeper — there  's  no  guile 
Mixed  with  the  shrewdness  of  that  smile 
That  breaks  from  sadness  into  joy — 
The  man's  glad  memory  of  the  boy. 


82  DIVIDED  HONORS 

Then  tears,  ah!  they  are  Nature's  rain, 
The  tears  of  love  and  death  and  grief 
And  rapture — the  divine  relief 
That  gives  us  back  the  sun  again. 


No  more  need  Nature  nurse  her  fears, 
For  look !  e'en  Art  herself  's  in  tears, 
And  in  the  general  acclaim 
The  jade  has  nigh  forgot  her  name. 
Yet  has  she  left  one  arrow  more, 
And,  proudly  rising  to  the  floor, 
"  Not  yet,"  she  says,  "  for  what  you  take 
For  Nature's  work  is  mine,  who  make 
Jewels  of  stones  that  else  would  lie 
Unnoticed  'neath  the  searching  sky. 
Receive  the  secret — mine  your  tears: 
He  's  been  my  pupil  fifteen  years!" 

Then  Justice  said :  "  Since  there  's  no  winner, 
'T  is  fair  the  two  should  pay  a  dinner; 
Nature  shall  furnish,  Art  prepare  it, 
And  Riley,  and  his  friends,  shall  share  it." 


A    TRACER  FOR  y***  B ***'****  83 


A  TRACER   FOR  J***  B* 

i 

DEAR  ENGLISH  COUSINS:  We  have  lost — 
And  crave  your  help  to  find  him — 

A  farmer-poet,  ocean-tossed, 
With  no  address  behind  him. 

Yes,  though  of  song  he  write  no  stave, 

We  yet  will  call  him  poet: 
His  lines,  as  wave  with  following  wave, 

Make  rhythm  and  never  know  it. 

His  pages  grow  rare  fruits  of  thought, 

Rare  fruits  of  toil  his  furrows; 
His  name  ?    Why  hide  it  when  you  've  caught 

The  rhyme  I  seek? — John  Burroughs. 

I  doubt  if  in  the  London  round 

His  eager  feet  will  loiter, 
While  hedge  and  copse  of  Kentish  ground 

Are  left  to  reconnoiter. 


84  A    TRACER  FOR  J***  B 

There  he  '11  compare,  in  lulls  of  rain, 

Your  thrushes  with  our  cat-bird, 
And  quiz  the  lads  in  every  lane 

For  news  of  this  or  that  bird. 

Him  leaners  over  Stratford  gates 

Shall  mark,  by  Avon  strolling. 
A  poacher?     Ay,  but  on  estates 

Not  near  their  vision  rolling. 

When  Shakespeare  tribute  he  has  brought 

Across  the  loyal  ocean, 
He  '11  seek  some  haunt  that  Wordsworth  sought 

To  pay  his  next  devotion. 

His  "next" — ah!  rather  say  his  first, 
Since  friend  is  more  than  sovereign; 

Of  poets  be  the  truth  rehearsed : 
To  reign  is  not  to  govern. 

To  him  the  moor  shall  not  be  lone, 

Nor  any  footstep  idle 
Where  Nature  hoards  each  lingering  tone 

Of  the  human  voice  of  Rydal. 


A    TRACER  FOR  J***  .#********  85 

By  poets  led,  he  will  not  grope, 
But  be,  from  Kent  to  Cumberland, 

At  home  as  on  his  Hudson  slope 
Or  Rip  Van  Winkle's  slumberland. 


ii 


How  shall  you  know  him? — by  what  word, 
What  shibboleth,  what  mole-ridge? — 

Him  who  will  find  an  English  bird 
Just  by  a  line  of  Coleridge  ? 

Of  outward  mark  the  quickest  test 

Is  that  he  wears  the  shading 
That  sober  Autumn  loves  the  best — 

Soft  gray  through  iron  fading. 

Tinged,  too,  are  beard  and  hair;  and  keen 

His  eye,  but  warm  and  witty; 
A  rustic  strength  is  in  his  mien, 

Made  mild  by  love  and  pity. 


86  A    TRACER  FOR  J***  B ******** 

A  man  of  grave,  of  jolly  moods, 
That  with  the  world  has  kept  tune  — 

You  'd  call  him  Druid  in  the  woods, 
And  in  the  billows  Neptune. 

Another  sign  that  will  not  fail: 
Where'er  he  chance  to  tarry, — 

In  copse,  or  glen,  or  velvet  vale, 
Or  where  the  streamlets  marry, 

Or  on  the  peaks  whose  shadows  spread 
O'er  Grasmere's  level  reaches, — 

You  '11  note  shy  shakings  of  his  head 
Before  his  Saxon  speeches. 


in 


AH  me !  by  how  poor  facts  and  few 

A  stranger  may  detect  us, 
While  friends  may  never  find  the  clew, 

Though  keenly  they  inspect  us. 


A    TRACER  FOR  J***  B ********  87 

Of  things  that  make  the  man — alack! 

I  've  hardly  even  hinted ; 
We  speak  of  them — behind  his  back, 

But  here? — this  might  be  printed. 

Still  ...  he  'd  not  know  the  portrait  his — 

His  modesty  so  blinds  him — 
But  no !  ...  to  learn  what  Burroughs  is 

Shall  be  his  fee  who  finds  him. 


II 

SONGS  OF   LIBERTY 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


TO    MAURICE    FRANCIS   EGAN 


APOSTROPHE   TO    GREECE* 

FROM  THE  PARTHENON 

(INSCRIBED  TO  THE  GREEK  PEOPLE  ON  THE  SEVENTY- 
FIFTH   ANNIVERSARY   OF   THEIR   INDEPENDENCE) 


O  LAND  of  sage  and  stoic— 
Of  human  deeds  heroic, 

Of  heroes'  deeds  divine! 
What  braggart  of  the  nations 
Shall  scorn  thy  proud  narrations  — 
Thou  who  hast  named  the  stars  from  thy  Olympian  line ! 

*  This  ode,  begun  on  the  steps  of  the  Parthenon  in  1886,  was 
published  in  the  New  York  "  Independent  "  of  April,  1896,  and,  in 
part,  in  modern  Greek  in  the  "  Hellas,"  a  record  of  the  Olympic 
Games  of  that  year. 

93 


94  APOSTROPHE    TO   GREECE 

In  spite  of  Moslem  crime 
Thou  livest!      Hungry  Time 
Can  but  the  dead  devour. 
Though  asphodel  hath  strewed 
This  marble  solitude, 
The  silence  thrills  with  life,  the  ruins  rise  in  power. 

Yon  sea's  imperial  vastness 

Was  once  thy  friend  and  fastness ; 

By  many  a  curving  strand, 
'Twixt  purple  capes,  on  edges 
Of  seaward-looking  ledges, 
Rose  the  white  cities  sown  by  thy  adventurous  hand. 

Nor  couldst  thou  think  of  these 
As  lonely  colonies 

Wherewith  rich  Corinth  lined 
The  West,  while  Dorian  sails 
Outrode  ^Egean  gales ; 
Nay,  suburbs  were  they  all,  molds  of  Athenian  mind. 

Then  could  thy  galleys  pass 
From  Tyre  to  Acragas, 

By  Grecian  islands  gray 
That  dreamed  of  Athens'  brow, 
And  gaily  to  the  prow 
Harnessed  the  pawing  winds  to  seek  some  Attic  bay. 


APOSTROPHE   TO   GREECE  95 

Here  to  Athene's  feast, 

From  West,  from  North,  from  East — 

Through  Jason's  fabled  strait 
Or  round  Malea's  rock — 
The  homesick  sails  would  flock, 
Oft  with  an  Odyssey  of  peril  to  relate. 

And  what  exultant  stir 
When  the  swart  islander, 

Bound  for  the  festal  week, 
First  saw  Colonna's  crest 
Give  back  the  glowing  West 
Far  past  ^Egina's  shore  and  her  prophetic  peak! 

I  hear  his  cheery  cries 
Though  Time  between  us  lies 

More  wide  than  sea  and  land. 
The  gladness  that  he  brings 
Thrills  in  the  song  he  sings, 
Beaching  his  welcome  craft  on  Phaleron's  level  strand. 

O  harbor  of  delight! 

Strike  the  torn  sail— to-night 

On  Attic  soil  again! 
When  joy  is  free  to  slaves 
What  though  the  swarming  waves 
Follow  each  other  down  like  the  generations  of  men ! 


96  APOSTROPHE   TO  GREECE 

Now,  for  a  time,  to  war 
And  private  hate  a  bar 
Of  sacred  armistice ; 
Even  in  the  under-world 
Shall  the  rough  winds  be  furled 
That  tell  of  wrangling  shades  that  crowd  the  courts  of  Dis. 

'T  is  Peace  shall  bring  the  green 
For  Merit's  brow.     What  scene, 

O  Athens,  shall  be  thine! 
Till  from  Parnassus'  height 
Phcebus*  reluctant  light 
Lingers  along  Hymettus'  fair  and  lofty  line. 

With  dance  and  song  and  game 
And  oratory's  flame 

Shall  Hellas  beat  and  swell, 
Till,  olive-crowned,  in  pride 
The  envied  victors  ride, 
Fellows  to  those  whose  fame  the  prancing  marbles  tell. 

O  antique  time  and  style, 
Return  to  us  awhile 

Bright  as  thy  happy  skies ! 
Silent  the  sounds  that  mar : 
Like  music  heard  afar 
The  harmony  endures  while  all  the  discord  dies. 


APOSTROPHE   TO   GREECE  97 

Not  yet  the  cloister-shade 
Fell  on  a  world  afraid, 

Morbid,  morose— the  alloy 
Found  greater  than  the  gold 
Of  life.     Like  Nature  old 
Thou  still  didst  sing  and  show  the  sanity  of  joy. 

Thine  is  that  wisdom  yet 
That  Age  from  Youth  must  get, 

Age  pay  to  Youth  in  kind. 
Oh,  teach  our  anxious  days 
Through  thy  serener  ways 
How  by  the  happy  heart  to  keep  the  unclouded  mind. 

ii 

BUT  thou  wert  Freedom's  too 
As  well  as  Joy's.     She  drew 

From  every  mountain  breast 
An  air  that  could  endure 
No  foreign  foe— so  pure 
That  Lycabettus  neighbors  the  Corinthian  crest. 

Nor  was  thy  love  of  life 
For  thee  alone.     Thy  strife 
Was  for  the  race,  no  less. 
Thee,  to  whom  wrong  is  done 
While  wrong  confronts  the  sun, 
The  oppressor  cannot  crush,  nor  teach  thee  to  oppress. 

7 


98  APOSTROPHE   TO   GREECE 

By  thee  for  lands  benighted 
Was  Freedom's  beacon  lighted 
That  now  enstars  the  earth. 
Welcome  the  people's  hour! 
Passed  is  the  monarch's  power, 
Dread  waits  not  on  his  death  that  trembled  at  his  birth. 

As  down  a  craggy  steep 
Albanian  torrents  leap 

Impetuous  to  the  sea- 
Such  was  thy  ancient  spirit, 
Still  thine.     Who  that  inherit 
Hatred  of  tyranny  inherit  not  from  thee? 

Look  to  the  West  and  see 
Thy  daughter,  Italy- 
Fathered  by  Neptune  bold 
On  Cumse's  sheltered  strand 
(Forgot  but  for  the  hand 
That  saved  to  Art  her  sibyl  many-named  and  old) ; 

That  temple-sated  soil, 
Whose  altar-smoke  would  coil 
To  hide  the  Avernian  steep, 
Grows  the  same  harvest  now— 
Best  increase  of  the  plow, 
Fair  Freedom,  of  thy  seed,  sown  for  the  world  to  reap. 


APOSTROPHE   TO   GREECE  99 

Though  regal  Rome  display 
The  triumphs  of  her  day ; 

Though  Florence,  laurel-hung, 
Tell  how  she  held  the  van 
In  the  slow  march  of  man— 
Greek  was  the  path  they  trod,  Greek  was  the  song  they  sung. 

Look  farther  west  and  there 
Behold  thy  later  heir, 

Child  of  thy  Jove-like  mind — 
Fair  France.     How  hath  she  kept 
The  watch  while  others  slept? 
Hath  Wisdom  hastened  on  while  Justice  lagged  behind? 

Like  thee,  full  well  she  knows 
Through  what  maternal  throes 

New  forms  from  olden  come ; 
Her  arts,  her  temples,  speak 
A  glory  that  is  Greek, 
And  filially  her  heart  turns  to  the  ancestral  home. 

For  her  no  backward  look 
Into  the  bloody  book 

Of  kings.     Thrice-rescued  land! 
Her  furrowed  graves  bespeak 
A  nobler  fate  :  to  seek 
In  service  of  the  world  again  the  world's  command. 


100  APOSTROPHE   TO   GREECE 

She  in  whose  skies  of  peace 
Arise  new  auguries 

To  strengthen,  cheer,  and  guide- 
When  nations  in  a  horde 
Draw  the  unhallowed  sword, 
t)  Memory,  walk,  a  warning  specter,  at  her  side! 

Among  thy  debtor  lands, 
See,  grateful  England  stands ; 

Who  at  thy  ranging  feet 
Learned  how  to  carry  Law 
Into  the  jungle's  maw, 
And  tempers  unto  Man  or  cold  or  desert  heat. 

All  that  thou  daredst  she  dares 
Till  now  thy  name  she  bears— 

Mother  of  Colonies. 
What  if  thy  glorious  Past 
She  should  restore  at  last, 
And  clothe  in  new  renown  the  dream  of  Pericles! 

If  she  but  lean  to  thee 

Once  more  thy  North  shall  be 

Uplifted  from  the  dust. 
Mother  of  noble  men, 
Thy  friends  of  sword  and  pen, 
England,  though  slow  to  justice,  shall  again  be  just. 


APOSTROPHE   TOT  GREECE  iol 

And  now  from  our  new  land 
Beyond  two  seas,  a  hand! 

Our  world,  for  ages  dumb, 
Part  of  thy  fable-lore, 
Gathers  upon  her  shore 
Each  dying  race  as  soil  for  one  chief  race  to  come. 

But  of  our  beating  heart 
Thy  pulse  how  large  a  part! 
Our  wider  sky  but  bounds 
Another  Grecian  dawn. 
Lament  not  what  is  gone ; 
Pentelicus  grieves  not,  for  Fame  hath  healed  his  wounds. 

in 

THEN,  Hellas!  scorn  the  sneer 
Of  kings  who  will  not  hear 

Their  people's  moaning  voice, 
More  deaf  than  shore  to  sea! 
The  world  hath  need  of  thee— 
The  world  thou  still  canst  teach  to  reason  and  rejoice. 

Yes,  need  of  thee  while  Art 
Of  life  is  but  a  part- 
Plaything  or  luxury. 
Greek  soil  perchance  may  show 
Where  Art's  hid  stream  doth  flow — 
To  rise,  a  new  Alpheus,  near  another  sea. 


102  APOSTROPHE   TO  GREECE 

Yes,  need  of  thee  while  Gold 
Makes  timid  traitors  bold 

To  lay  republics  low ; 
Not  ignorant  nor  poor 
Spread  for  their  feet  the  lure — 
The  kind,  the  loved,  the  honored,  aim  the  brutal  blow. 

Yes,  need  of  thee  while  Earth 
Each  day  shows  Heaven  a  girth 

Of  want  and  misery ; 
Wherein  there  is  not  found 
Beyond  thy  happy  bound 
A  people  brave,  sane,  temperate,  thrifty,  chaste,  and  free. 

Then,  though  by  faction's  blunder, 
And  boasts,  of  mimic  thunder, 

Again  thou  art  betrayed, 
Vain  this,  vain  every  treason ; 
With  thee  are  Hope  and  Reason, 
Nor  Past  can  be  forgot,  nor  Future  long  delayed. 

Troy  was,  but  Athens  is — 
The  World's  and  Liberty's, 

Nor  ever  less  shall  be! 
Though  fallen  are  old  fanes 
The  vestal  fire  remains 
Bright  with  the  light  serene  of  immortality. 


SONG   OF  THE  MODERN  GREEKS  103 


SONG  OF  THE  MODERN  GREEKS 

LIBERTY,  beloved  of  Hellas, 
Lend  us  once  again  thy  sword ; 

Turn  thy  glorious  eyes  that  tell  us 
Thou  art  still  to  be  adored. 

Hail  thee,  spirit!  hover  over 

Salamis  and  Marathon, 
Till  each  corse  that  called  thee  lover 

Rise  with  thee  to  lead  us  on. 

Slumbered  Hellas  long  in  sadness, 
Waiting  thee  to  call  her  forth ; 

Hushed  the  very  cradle's  gladness 
By  the  tyrant  of  the  North. 

Long  she  dwelt  with  buried  heroes 
In  the  fame  of  other  years ; 

But  against  a  horde  of  Neros 
What  availed  or  pride  or  tears  ? 


104  SONG   OF   THE  MODERN  GREEKS 

Then  at  last  thy  summons  called  us, 
And  as  one  we  followed  thee, 

Till  the  rusted  chains  that  thralled  us 
Fell,  and  Greece  once  more  was  free. 

Ah,  but  while  our  kin  are  weeping 

Over  sea  and  over  land, 
Let  us  not  again  be  sleeping, 

Wake  us  with  thy  warning  hand. 

Though  the  Moslem  swarm  to  slay  us, 
Though  false  friends,  within,  without  - 

Kings  or  cowards — shall  betray  us, 
If  thou  lead  us,  who  shall  doubt? 

Greece's  blood  made  many  an  altar 
For  the  nations  then  unborn ; 

Will  they  with  her  peril  palter — 
Give  her  gratitude,  or  scorn? 

Oh,  could  Earth  and  Time  assemble 

All  thy  legions,  Liberty, 
At  their  tread  the  world  would  tremble 

With  the  passion  to  be  free. 


TO   THE  HOUSA  TONIC  AT  STOCKBRIDGE   105 


TO    THE    HOUSATONIC   AT   STOCKBRIDGE 

CONTENTED  river!  in  thy  dreamy  realm— 

The  cloudy  willow  and  the  plumy  elm : 

They  call  thee  English,  thinking  thus  to  mate 

Their  musing  streams  that,  oft  with  pause  sedate, 

Linger  through  misty  meadows  for  a  glance 

At  haunted  tower  or  turret  of  romance. 

Beware  their  praise  who  rashly  would  deny 

To  our  New  World  its  true  tranquillity. 

Our  "  New  World  "?     Nay,  say  rather  to  our  Old 

(Let  truth  and  freedom  make  us  doubly  bold) ; 

Tell  them :  A  thousand  silent  years  before 

Their  sea-born  isle— at  every  virgin  shore 

Dripping  like  Aphrodite's  tresses— rose, 

Here,  'neath  her  purple  veil,  deep  slept  Repose, 

To  be  awakened  but  by  wail  of  war. 

About  thy  cradle  under  yonder  hill, 

Before  thou  knewest  bridge,  or  dam,  or  mill, 

Soft  winds  of  starlight  whispered  heavenly  lore, 

Which,  like  our  childhood's,  all  the  workday  toil 

Cannot  efface,  nor  long  its  beauty  soil. 

Thou  hast  grown  human  laboring  with  men 

At  wheel  and  spindle ;  sorrow  thou  dost  ken ; 


io6    TO    THE  HO  US  A  TONIC  AT  STOCKBRIDGE 

Yet  dost  thou  still  the  unshaken  stars  behold, 
Calm  to  their  calm  returning,  as  of  old. 
Thus,  like  a  gentle  nature  that  grows  strong 
In  meditation  for  the  strife  with  wrong, 
Thou  show'st  the  peace  that  only  tumult  can ; 
Surely,  serener  river  never  ran. 

Thou  beautiful!     From  every  dreamy  hill 
What  eye  but  wanders  with  thee  at  thy  will, 
Imagining  thy  silver  course  unseen 
Convoyed  by  two  attendant  streams  of  green 
In  bending  lines,— like  half-expected  swerves 
Of  swaying  music,  or  those  perfect  curves 
We  call  the  robin ;  making  harmony 
With  many  a  new-found  treasure  of  the  eye : 
With  meadows,  marging  smoothly  rounded  hills 
Where  Nature  teemingly  the  myth  fulfils 
Of  many-breasted  Plenty ;  with  the  blue, 
That  to  the  zenith  fades  through  triple  hue, 
Pledge  of  the  constant  day ;  with  clouds  of  white, 
That  haunt  horizons  with  their  blooms  of  light, 
And  when  the  east  with  rosy  eve  is  glowing 
Seem  like  full  cheeks  of  zephyrs  gently  blowing. 

Contented  river!  and  yet  over-shy 

To  mask  thy  beauty  from  the  eager  eye ; 


TO    THE  HOUSA TONIC  AT  STOCKBRIDGE    107 

Hast  thou  a  thought  to  hide  from  field  and  town? 

In  some  deep  current  of  the  sunlit  brown 

Art  thou  disquieted — still  uncontent 

With  praise  from  thy  Homeric  bard,  who  lent 

The  world  the  placidness  thou  gavest  him? 

Thee  Bryant  loved  when  life  was  at  its  brim ; 

And  when  the  wine  was  falling,  in  thy  wood 

Of  sturdy  willows   like  a  Druid  stood. 

Oh,  for  his  touch  on  this  o'er-throbbing  time, 

His  hand  upon  the  hectic  brow  of  Rhyme, 

Cooling  its  fevered  passion  to  a  pace 

To  lead,  to  stir,  to  reinspire  the  race! 

Ah !  there 's  a  restive  ripple,  and  the  swift 
Red  leaves— September's  firstlings— faster  drift; 
Betwixt  twin  aisles  of  prayer  they  seem  to  pass 
(One  green,  one  greenly  mirrored  in  thy  glass). 
Wouldst  thou  away,  dear  stream?   Come,  whisper  near! 
I  also  of  much  resting  have  a  fear : 
Let  me  to-morrow  thy  companion  be 
By  fall  and  shallow  to  the  adventurous  sea! 


FAKE  WELL    TO  ITALY 


FAREWELL   TO    ITALY 

WE  lingered  at  Domo  d'Ossola— 
Like  a  last,  reluctant  guest— 

Where  the  gray-green  tide  of  Italy 
Flows  up  to  a  snowy  crest. 

The  world  from  that  Alpine  shoulder 
Yearns  toward  the  Lombard  plain— 

The  hearts  that  come,  with  rapture, 
The  hearts  that  go,  with  pain. 

Afar  were  the  frets  of  Milan ; 

Below,  the  enchanted  lakes ; 
And— was  it  the  mist  of  the  evening, 

Or  the  mist  that  the  memory  makes  ? 

We  gave  to  the  pale  horizon 

The  Naples  that  evening  gives ; 

We  reckoned  where  Rome  lies  buried, 
And  we  felt  where  Florence  lives. 


FAREWELL    TO  ITALY  109 

And  as  Hope  bends  low  at  parting 

For  a  death-remembered  tone, 
We  searched  the  land  that  Beauty 

And  Love  have  made  their  own. 

We  would  take  of  her  hair  some  ringlet, 
Some  keepsake  from  her  breast, 

And  catch  of  her  plaintive  music 
The  strain  that  is  tenderest. 

So  we  strolled  in  the  yellow  gloaming 

(Our  speech  with  musing  still) 
Till  the  noise  of  the  militant  village 

Fell  faint  on  Calvary  Hill. 

And  scarcely  our  mood  was  broken 

Of  near-impending  loss 
To  find  at  the  bend  of  the  pathway 

A  station  of  the  Cross. 

And  up  through  the  green  aisle  climbing 
(Each  shrine  like  a  counted  bead), 

We  heard  from  above  the  swaying 
And  mystical  chant  of  the  creed. 

Then  the  dead  seemed  the  only  living, 
And  the  real  seemed  the  wraith, 


HO  FAREWELL    TO  ITALY 

And  we  yielded  ourselves  to  the  vision 
We  saw  with  the  eye  of  Faith. 

Then  she  said,  "  Let  us  go  no  farther : 
'T  is  fit  that  we  make  farewell 

While  forest  and  lake  and  mountain 
Are  under  the  vesper  spell." 

As  we  rested,  the  leafy  silence 
Broke  like  a  cloud  at  play, 

And  a  browned  and  burdened  woman 
Passed,  singing,  down  the  way. 

'T  was  a  song  of  health  and  labor, — 
Of  childlike  gladness,  blent 

With  the  patience  of  the  toiler 
That  tyrants  call  content. 

"  Nay,  this  is  the  word  we  have  waited," 
I  said,  "  that  a  year  and  a  sea 

From  now,  in  our  doom  of  exile, 
Shall  echo  of  Italy." 

Just  then  what  a  burst  from  the  bosquet — 
As  a  bird  might  have  found  its  soul  ! 

And  each  by  the  halt  of  the  heart-throb 
Knew  't  was  the  rossignol. 


FAREWELL    TO  ITALY  in 

Then  we  drew  to  each  other  nearer 

And  drank  at  the  gray  wall's  verge 

The  sad,  sweet  song  of  lovers,— 
Their  passion  and  their  dirge. 

And  the  carol  of  Toil  below  us 

And  the  paean  of  Prayer  above 
Were  naught  to  the  song  of  Sorrow, 

For  under  the  sorrow  was  Love. 

Alas  !  for  the  dear  remembrance 

We  chose  for  an  amulet : 
The  one  that  is  left  to  keep  it— 

Ah !  how  can  he  foreret  ? 


112  A    CHOPIN  FANTASY 


A   CHOPIN    FANTASY 

ON  REMEMBRANCE  OF  A  PRELUDE 

COME,  love,  sit  here  and  let  us  leave  awhile 
This  custom-laden  world  for  warmer  lands 
Where,  'neath  the  silken  net  of  afternoon, 
Leisure  is  duty  and  dread  care  a  dream. 

(The  music  begins) 

That  cliff  's  Minorca,  that  horizon  Spain. 
There  in  the  west,  like  fragrance  visible, 
Rises  the  soft  light  as  the  sun  goes  down 
Till  half  the  sky  is  palpitant  with  gold. 
Follow  it  eastward  to  the  gentle  blue, 
With  faith  and  childhood  in  it,  and  the  peace 
Men  agonize  and  roam  for.     See  that  fleet 
That  flutters  in  the  breeze  from  the  Camargue 
Like  white  doves,  huddled  now,  now  scattering. 
(They  say  all  native  boats  are  homeward  bound 
Against  to-morrow's  annual  festival.) 
What  rest  there  is  in  looking  from  this  height 


A    CHOPIN  FANTASY  113 

On  palms  and  olives,  and  the  easy  steps 

By  which  the  terrace  clambers  yonder  hill! 

How  dark  those  hollows  whence  the  roads  of  white 

Ascend  in  angles  to  the  high-perched  town! 

Needless  the  music  of  the  convent  bell : 

Tis  vespers  in  the  heart  as  in  the  air. 

This  is  the  hour  for  love,  that,  like  the  breath 

Of  yonder  orange,  sweetest  is  at  eve. 

Here,  safe  entwined,  what  could  be  wished  for  two 

Hid  in  an  island  hidden  in  the  sea  ? 

Now  let  me  lay  my  head  upon  your  lap, 

And  place  your  rose-leaf  fingers  on  my  lids, 

Lest,  catching  glimpse  of  your  resplendent  eyes, 

My  ardor  should  blaspheme  the  coming  stars! 

How  fast  it  darkens !    One  must  needs  be  blind 

To  know  the  twilight  softness  of  your  voice. 

And  Love, — not  blind,  but  with  a  curtained  sight, — 

Like  one  who  dwells  with  Sorrow,  can  discern 

The  shading  of  a  shadow  in  a  tone. 

There  's  something  troubles  you,  my  sweet-of-hearts, 

A  hesitance  in  that  caressing  word ; 

Nothing  unhappy — a  presentiment 

Such  as  from  far  might  thrill  the  under-depths 

Of  some  still  tranquil  lake  before  a  storm. 

Be  happy,  love,  not  ponder  happiness. 


H4  A    CHOPIN  FANTASY 

Unerringly  I  know  your  woman's  soul, 

Content  to  have  your  happiness  put  off 

Like  well-planned  feast  against  to-morrow's  need, 

And  more  enjoyed  in  planning  than  in  use. 

But  oh,  we  men,  God  made  us— what  was  that? 

A  drop  upon  your  hand?     Perhaps  a  tear 

Lost  by  an  angel  who  remembers  yet 

Some  perfect  moment  of  th'  imperfect  world, 

And  goes  reluctantly  her  way  to  heaven, 

Still  envious  of  our  lot?     Another  drop! 

Why,  't  is  the  rain.     Stand  here  and  see  that  sky — 

Blackness  intense  as  sunlight.     What  a  chasm 

Of  silver  where  that  lightning  tore  its  way! 

That  crash  was  nearer !     Here  's  our  shelter — quick ! 

Now  it  's  upon  us!      Half  a  breath,  and— there! 

No  wonder  you  should  tremble  when  the  earth 

Sways  thus  and  all  the  firmament  's  a-reel. 

Tremble,  but  fear  not— Love  created  Fear 

To  drive  men  back  to  Love,  where  you  are  now. 

What  rhythmic  terror  in  the  tideless  sea 

That  wildly  seeks  the  refuge  of  the  rocks 

From  unknown  dangers  (dangers  known  are  none) ! 

God !  did  you  see  within  the  headland's  jaws 

That  drifting  sail?     Wait  the  next  flash  and— look ! 

Oh,  heaven !  to  cruise  about  a  hundred  coasts, 

Safe  past  the  fabled  monsters  of  the  deep, 


A    CHOPIN  FANTASY  115 

To  break  supinely  on  familiar  shoals 

Where  one  in  childhood  digged  a  mimic  grave! 

Thank  God  for  those  few,  momentary  stars, 
And  that  slow-lifting  zone  of  topaz  light, 
Like  parting  guest  returning  with  a  smile. 
We  care  not  now  that  the  insatiate  storm 
Plunges  with  leaps  of  thunder  on  the  east. 

( The  music  ceases) 

Give  me  thy  hand,  dear  one,  though  unto  pain 
I  crush  it  to  be  sure  that  this  be  dream, 
Knowing  't  was  Death  that  passed,  and  oh,  how 
near! 


Ii6  IN  TESLA^S  LABORATORY 


IN   TESLA'S   LABORATORY 

HERE  in  the  dark  what  ghostly  figures  press  !  — 
No  phantom  of  the  Past,  or  grim  or  sad ; 
No  wailing  spirit  of  woe ;  no  specter,  clad 

In  white  and  wandering  cloud,  whose  dumb  distress 

Is  that  its  crime  it  never  may  confess ; 

No  shape  from  the  strewn  sea ;  nor  they  that  add 
The  link  of  Life  and  Death, — the  tearless  mad, 

That  live  nor  die  in  dreary  nothingness : 

But  blessed  spirits  waiting  to  be  born- 
Thoughts  to  unlock  the  fettering  chains  of  Things 

The  Better  Time ;  the  Universal  Good. 
Their  smile  is  like  the  joyous  break  of  morn ; 

How  fair,  how  near,  how  wistfully  they  brood  ! 
Listen  !  that  murmur  is  of  angels'  wings. 


THE  WISTFUL  DAYS  117 


THE   WISTFUL   DAYS 

WHAT  is  there  wanting  in  the  Spring  ? 

The  air  is  soft  as  yesteryear ; 

The  happy-nested  green  is  here, 
And  half  the  world  is  on  the  wing. 

The  morning  beckons,  and  like  balm 

Are  westward  waters  blue  and  calm. 
Yet  something 's  wanting  in  the  Spring. 

What  is  it  wanting  in  the  Spring  ? 
O  April,  lover  to  us  all, 
What  is  so  poignant  in  thy  thrall 

When  children's  merry  voices  ring  ? 
What  haunts  us  in  the  cooing  dove 
More  subtle  than  the  speech  of  Love, 

What  nameless  lack  or  loss  of  Spring? 

Let  Youth  go  dally  with  the  Spring, 
Call  her  the  dear,  the  fair,  the  young ; 
And  all  her  graces  ever  sung 

Let  him,  once  more  rehearsing,  sing. 
They  know,  who  keep  a  broken  tryst, 
Till  something  from  the  Spring  be  missed 

We  have  not  truly  known  the  Spring. 


u8  "LOVE  ONCE  WAS  LIKE  AN  APRIL  DAWN" 


"LOVE  ONCE  WAS  LIKE  AN  APRIL  DAWN" 

LOVE  once  was  like  an  April  dawn : 

Song  throbbed  within  the  heart  by  rote, 
And  every  tint  of  rose  or  fawn 
Was  greeted  by  a  joyous  note. 
How  eager  was  my  thought  to  see 
Into  that  morning  mystery  ! 

Love  now  is  like  an  August  noon, 
No  spot  is  empty  of  its  shine ; 
The  sun  makes  silence  seem  a  boon, 
And  not  a  voice  so  dumb  as  mine. 
Yet  with  what  words  I'd  welcome  thee— 
Couldst  thou  return,  dear  mystery  ! 


AN  IRISH  L O  VE-SONG  1 1 9 


AN  IRISH    LOVE-SONG 

IN  the  years  about  twenty 

(When  kisses  are  plenty) 
The  love  of  an  Irish  lass  fell  to  my  fate  — 

So  winsome  and  sightly, 

So  saucy  and  sprightly, 
The  priest  was  a  prophet  that  christened  her  Kate. 

Soft  gray  of  the  dawning, 

Bright  blue  of  the  morning, 
The  sweet  of  her  eye  there  was  nothing  to  mate ; 

A  nose  like  a  fairy's, 

A  cheek  like  a  cherry's, 
And  a  smile— well,  her  smile  was  like-— nothing  but  Kate. 

To  see  her  was  passion, 

To  love  her,  the  fashion ; 
What  wonder  my  heart  was  unwilling  to  wait! 

And,  daring  to  love  her, 

I  soon  did  discover 
A  Katharine  masking  as  mischievous  Kate. 


120  AN  IRISH  LOVE-SONG 

No  Katy  unruly, 

But  Katharine,  truly— 
Fond,  serious,  patient,  and  even  sedate ; 

With  a  glow  in  her  gladness 

That  banishes  sadness — 
Yet  stay  !      Should  I  credit  the  sunshine  to  Kate  ? 

Love  cannot  outlive  it, 

Wealth  cannot  o'ergive  it — 
That  saucy  surrender  she  made  at  the  gate. 

O  Time,  be  but  human, 

Spare  the  girl  in  the  woman  ! 
You  gave  me  my  Katharine— leave  me  my  Kate  ! 


"Off,  WASTE  NO    TEARS"  121 


"OH,   WASTE   NO   TEARS" 

OH,  waste  no  tears  on  Pain  or  Fate, 
Nor  yet  at  Sorrow's  dire  demand ; 

Think  not  to  drown  Regret  with  weight 
Of  weeping,  as  the  sea  the  strand ; 

When  was  Death's  victory  less  elate 

That  Grief  o'er-sobbed  his  grasping  hand? 

Not  for  the  flaws  of  life  shall  fall 
The  tear  most  exquisite— ah,  no ; 

But  for  its  fine  perfections  all : 
For  morning's  joyous  overflow, 

For  sunset's  fleeting  festival, 

And  what  midwinter  moons  may  show ; 

For  wild-rose  breath  of  Keats's  line ; 

For  Titian's  rivalry  of  June ; 
For  Chopin's  tender  notes  that  twine 

The  sense  in  one  autumnal  tune ; 
For  Brunelleschi's  dome  divine, 

In  wonder  planned,  with  worship  hewn. 


122  "OH,  WASTE  NO    TEARS" 

Save  them  for  heroes — not  their  blood, 
But  for  the  generous  vow  it  sealed ; 

For  babes,  when  mothers  say,  "  This  bud 
Will  be  the  blossom  of  the  field  "  ; 

For  women,  when  to  Vengeance*  flood 
They  hold  for  Guilt  a  stainless  shield. 

And  when  two  hearts  have  closer  come, 
Through  doubts  and  mysteries  and  fears, 

Till  in  one  look's  delirium 

At  last  the  happy  truth  appears, 

When  words  are  weak  and  music  dumb 
Then  perfect  love  shall  speak  in  tears. 


HER  SMILE  123 


HER   SMILE 

THE  odor  is  the  rose ; 

The  smile,  the  woman. 
Delights  the  bud  doth  sheathe, 
Unfolded,  all  may  breathe. 
So  joys  that  none  could  know 
Her  smiles  on  all  bestow, 

As  though  a  rose  were  happy  to  be  human! 


124  SONG  FOR   THE   GUITAR 


SONG   FOR   THE    GUITAR 

I  GRIEVE  to  see  these  tears — 

Long  strangers  to  thine  eye— 
These  jewels  that  fond  years 

For  me  could  never  buy. 
Weep,  weep,  and  give  thy  heart  relief. 
T  grieve,  but  't  is  not  for  thy  grief : 

Not  for  these  tears — they  were 

Another's  ere  they  fell— 
But  those  that  never  stir 

The  fountain  where  they  dwell. 
I  M  smile,  though  thou  shouldst  weep  a  sea, 
Were  but  a  single  tear  for  me  ! 


URSULA  125 


URSULA 

I  SEE  her  in  the  festal  warmth  to-night, 
Her  rest  all  grace,  her  motion  all  delight. 
Endowed  with  all  the  woman's  arts  that  please, 
In  her  soft  gown  she  seems  a  thing  of  ease, 
Whom  sorrow  may  not  reach  or  evil  blight. 

To-morrow  she  will  toil  from  floor  to  floor 
To  smile  upon  the  unreplying  poor, 
To  stay  the  tears  of  widows,  and  to  be 
Confessor  to  men's  erring  hearts  ...  ah  me  ! 
She  knows  not  I  am  beggar  at  her  door. 


126  A   DARK  DAY 


A   DARK   DAY 

GLOOM  of  a  leaden  sky 

Too  heavy  for  hope  to  move ; 
Grief  in  my  heart  to  vie 

With  the  dark  distress  above  ; 
Yet  happy,  happy  am  I— 

For  I  sorrow  with  her  I  love. 


THE  SURPRISED  AVOWAL  127 


THE   SURPRISED    AVOWAL 

WHEN  one  word  is  spoken, 
When  one  look  you  see, 

When  you  take  the  token, 
Howe'er  so  slight  it  be, 

The  cage's  bolt  is  broken, 
The  happy  bird  is  free. 

There  is  no  unsaying 
That  love-startled  word ; 

It  were  idle  praying 
It  no  more  be  heard ; 

Yet,  its  law  obeying, 

Who  shall  blame  the  bird? 

What  avails  the  mending 
Where  the  cage  was  weak? 

What  avails  the  sending 
Far,  the  bird  to  seek, 

When  every  cloud  is  lending 
Wings  toward  yonder  peak? 


128  THE  SURPRISED  AVOWAL 

Thrush,  could  they  recapture 
You  to  newer  wrong, 

How  could  you  adapt  your 
Strain  to  suit  the  throng? 

Gone  would  be  the  rapture 
Of  unimprisoned  song. 


THE  BLOSSOM  OF   THE  SOUL 


129 


THE   BLOSSOM    OF  THE   SOUL 

THOU  half-unfolded  flower 
With  fragrance-laden  heart, 

What  is  the  secret  power 
That  doth  thy  petals  part? 

What  gave  thee  most  thy  hue— 

The  sunshine,  or  the  dew? 

Thou  wonder- wakened  soul! 

As  Dawn  doth  steal  on  Night 
On  thee  soft  Love  hath  stole. 

Thine  eye,  that  blooms  with  light, 
What  makes  its  charm  so  new- 
Its  sunshine,  or  its  dew? 


130  "IJOURNEYED  SOUTH  TO  MEET  THE  SPRING 


"I   JOURNEYED   SOUTH   TO    MEET  THE 
SPRING" 

I  JOURNEYED  South  to  meet  the  Spring, 

To  feel  the  soft  tide's  gentle  rise 
That  to  my  heart  again  should  bring, 
Foretold  by  many  a  whispering  wing, 

The  old,  the  new,  the  sweet  surprise. 

For  once,  the  wonder  was  not  new — 

And  yet  it  wore  a  newer  grace : 
For  all  its  innocence  of  hue, 
Its  warmth  and  bloom  and  dream  and  dew, 

I  had  but  left— in  Helen's  face. 


PARAPHRASES   FROM   THE   SERVIAN 

OF 

ZMAI    IOVAN    IOVANOVICH 
AFTER   LITERAL   TRANSLATIONS 

BY 

NIKOLA   TESLA 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTE 

BY 

MR.    TESLA 


ZMAI    IOVAN    IOVANOVICH 

THE  CHIEF  SERVIAN  POET  OF  TO-DAY 

HARDLY  is  there  a  nation  which  has  met  with  a  sad 
der  fate  than  the  Servian.  From  the  height  of  its 
splendor,  when  the  empire  embraced  almost  the  entire 
northern  part  of  the  Balkan  peninsula  and  a  large  por 
tion  of  the  territory  now  belonging  to  Austria,  the  Ser 
vian  nation  was  plunged  into  abject  slavery,  after  the 
fatal  battle  of  1389  at  the  Kosovo  Polje,  against  the 
overwhelming  Asiatic  hordes.  Europe  can  never  repay 
the  great  debt  it  owes  to  the  Servians  for  checking,  by 
the  sacrifice  of  their  own  liberty,  that  barbarian  influx. 
The  Poles  at  Vienna,  under  Sobieski,  finished  what  the 
Servians  attempted,  and  were  similarly  rewarded  for 
their  service  to  civilization. 

It  was  at  the  Kosovo  Polje  that  Milosh  Obilich,  the 
noblest  of  Servian  heroes,  fell,  after  killing  the  Sultan 
Murat  II.  in  the  very  midst  of  his  great  army.  Were 
it  not  that  it  is  an  historical  fact,  one  would  be  apt  to 
consider  this  episode  a  myth,  evolved  by  contact  with 
the  Greek  and  Latin  races.  For  in  Milosh  we  see  both 

'35 


1 36  IN  TROD  UCTOR  Y  NO  TE  ON  ZMAI 

Leonidas  and  Mucius,  and,  more  than  this,  a  martyr, 
for  he  does  not  die  an  easy  death  on  the  battle-field  like 
the  Greek,  but  pays  for  his  daring  deed  with  a  death  of 
fearful  torture.  It  is  not  astonishing  that  the  poetry  of 
a  nation  capable  of  producing  such  heroes  should  be 
pervaded  with  a  spirit  of  nobility  and  chivalry.  Even 
the  indomitable  Marko  Kraljevich,  the  later  incarnation 
of  Servian  heroism,  when  vanquishing  Musa,  the  Mos 
lem  chief,  exclaims,  "Woe  unto  me,  for  I  have  killed 
a  better  man  than  myself! " 

From  that  fatal  battle  until  a  recent  period,  it  has 
been  black  night  for  the  Servians,  with  but  a  single  star 
in  the  firmament — Montenegro.  In  this  gloom  there 
was  no  hope  for  science,  commerce,  art,  or  industry. 
What  could  they  do,  this  brave  people,  save  to  keep  up 
the  weary  fight  against  the  oppressor?  And  this  they 
did  unceasingly,  though  the  odds  were  twenty  to  one. 
Yet  fighting  merely  satisfied  their  wilder  instincts. 
There  was  one  more  thing  they  could  do,  and  did :  the 
noble  feats  of  their  ancestors,  the  brave  deeds  of  those 
who  fell  in  the  struggle  for  liberty,  they  embodied  in 
immortal  song.  Thus  circumstances  and  innate  quali 
ties  made  the  Servians  a  nation  of  thinkers  and  poets, 
and  thus,  gradually,  were  evolved  their  magnificent 
national  poems,  which  were  first  collected  by  their  most 
prolific  writer,  Vuk  Stefanovich  Karajich,  who  also 
compiled  the  first  dictionary  of  the  Servian  tongue, 
containing  more  than  sixty  thousand  words.  These 
national  poems  Goethe  considered  fit  to  match  the  finest 
productions  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  What  would 
he  have  thought  of  them  had  he  been  a  Servian? 

While  the  Servians  have  been  distinguished  in  national 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  ON  ZMAI  137 

poetry,  they  have  also  had  many  individual  poets  who 
attained  greatness.  Of  contemporaries  there  is  none 
who  has  grown  so  dear  to  the  younger  generation  as 
Zmai  lovan  lovanovich.  He  was  born  in  Novi  Sad 
(Neusatz),  a  city  at  the  southern  border  of  Hungary,  on 
November  24,  1833.  He  comes  from  an  old  and  noble 
family,  which  is  related  to  the  Servian  royal  house.  In 
his  earliest  childhood  he  showed  a  great  desire  to  learn 
by  heart  the  Servian  national  songs  which  were  recited 
to  him,  and  even  as  a  child  he  began  to  compose  poems. 
His  father,  who  was  a  highly  cultivated  and  wealthy 
gentleman,  gave  him  his  first  education  in  his  native 
city.  After  this  he  went  to  Budapest,  Prague,  and 
Vienna,  and  in  these  cities  he  finished  his  studies  in  law. 
This  was  the  wish  of  his  father,  but  his  own  inclinations 
prompted  him  to  take  up  the  study  of  medicine.  He 
then  returned  to  his  native  city,  where  a  prominent 
official  position  was  offered  him,  which  he  accepted ; 
but  so  strong  were  his  poetical  instincts  that  a  year  later 
he  abandoned  the  post  to  devote  himself  entirely  to 
literary  work. 

His  literary  career  began  in  1849,  his  first  poem  being 
printed  in  1852,  in  a  journal  called  "Srbski  Letopis  " 
("  Servian  Annual  Review  ") ;  to  this  and  to  other  jour 
nals,  notably  "  Neven  "  and  "  Sedmica,"  he  contributed 
his  early  productions.  From  that  period  until  1870, 
besides  his  original  poems,  he  made  many  beautiful 
translations  from  Petefy  and  Arany,  the  two  greatest  of 
the  Hungarian  poets,  and  from  the  Russian  of  Lermon- 
tof,  as  well  as  from  German  and  other  poets.  In  1861 
he  edited  the  comic  journal,  "Komarac"  ("The  Mos 
quito"),  and  in  the  same  year  he  started  the  literary 


1 38  INTRO D  UCTOR  Y  NO  TE  ON  ZMAI 

journal,  "Javor,"  and  to  these  papers  he  contributed 
many  beautiful  poems.  In  1861  he  married,  and 
during  the  few  happy  years  that  followed  he  produced 
his  admirable  series  of  lyrical  poems  called  "  Giulichi," 
which  probably  remain  his  masterpiece.  In  1862, 
greatly  to  his  regret,  he  discontinued  his  beloved  jour 
nal,  "Javor"— a  sacrifice  which  was  asked  of  him  by 
the  great  Servian  patriot,  Miletich,  who  was  then  active 
on  a  political  journal,  in  order  to  insure  the  success  of 
the  latter. 

In  1863  he  was  elected  director  of  an  educational 
institution,  called  the  Tekelianum,  at  Budapest.  He 
now  ardently  renewed  the  study  of  medicine  at  the  uni 
versity,  and  took  the  degree  of  doctor  of  medicine. 
Meanwhile  he  did  not  relax  his  literary  labors.  Yet, 
for  his  countrymen,  more  valuable  even  than  his  splen 
did  productions  were  his  noble  and  unselfish  efforts  to 
nourish  the  enthusiasm  of  Servian  youth.  During  his 
stay  in  Budapest  he  founded  the  literary  society  Preod- 
nica,  of  which  he  was  president,  and  to  which  he  de 
voted  a  large  portion  of  his  energies. 

In  1864  he  started  his  famous  satirical  journal,  "Zmai" 
("  The  Dragon  "),  which  was  so  popular  that  the  name 
became  a  part  of  his  own.  In  1866  his  comic  play 
"Sharan"  was  given  with  great  success.  In  1872  he 
had  the  great  pain  of  losing  his  wife,  and,  shortly  after, 
his  only  child.  How  much  these  misfortunes  affected 
him  is  plainly  perceptible  from  the  deeply  sad  tone  of 
the  poems  which  immediately  followed.  In  1873  he 
started  another  comic  journal,  the  "Ziza."  During  the 
year  1877  he  began  an  illustrated  chronicle  of  the  Russo- 
Turkish  war,  and  in  1878  appeared  his  popular  comic 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  ON  ZMAI         139 

journal,  "  Starmali."  During  all  this  period  he  wrote 
not  only  poems,  but  much  prose,  including  short  novels, 
often  under  an  assumed  name.  The  best  of  these  is 
probably  "  Vidosava  Brankovicheva."  In  recent  years 
he  has  published  a  great  many  charming  little  poems  for 
children. 

Since  1870  Zmai  has  pursued  his  profession  as  a  phy 
sician.  He  is  an  earnest  advocate  of  cremation,  and 
has  devoted  much  time  to  the  furtherance  of  that  cause. 
Until  recently  he  was  a  resident  of  Vienna,  but  now  he 
is  domiciled  in  Belgrade.  There  he  lives  the  life  of  a 
true  poet,  loving  all  and  beloved  by  everybody.  In 
recognition  of  his  merit,  the  nation  has  voted  him  a 
subvention. 

The  poems  of  Zmai  are  so  essentially  Servian  that  to 
translate  them  into  another  tongue  appears  next  to 
impossible.  In  keen  satire  free  from  Voltairian  venom, 
in  good-hearted  and  spontaneous  humor,  in  delicacy 
and  depth  of  expression,  they  are  remarkable.  Mr. 
Johnson  has  undertaken  the  task  of  versifying  a  few  of 
the  shorter  ones  after  my  literal  and  inadequate  readings. 
Close  translation  being  often  out  of  the  question,  he  has 
had  to  paraphrase,  following  as  nearly  as  possible  the 
original  motives  and  ideas.  In  some  instances  he  has  ex 
panded  in  order  to  complete  a  picture  or  to  add  a  touch 
of  his  own.  The  poems  which  follow  will  give  some 
idea  of  the  versatility  of  the  Servian  poet,  but  come  far 
short  of  indicating  his  range. 

Nikola  Tesla. 

NEW  YORK  CITY. 


THE  THREE  GIAOURS  141 


THE  THREE  GIAOURS 

IN  the  midst  of  the  dark  and  stormy  night 

Feruz  Pacha  awakes  in  fright, 

And  springs  from  out  his  curtained  bed. 

The  candle  trembles  as  though  it  read 

Upon  his  pallid  face  the  theme 

And  terror  of  his  nightly  dream. 

He  calls  to  his  startled  favorite : 
"  The  keys  !  the  keys  of  the  dungeon-pit  ! 
Cannot  those  cursed  Giaours  stay 
There  in  their  own  dark,  rotting  away, 
Where  I  gave  them  leave  three  years  ago  ? 
Had  I  but  buried  their  bones  !  — but,  no  ! 
They  come  at  midnight  to  clatter  and  creep, 
And  haunt  and  threaten  me  in  my  sleep." 

"  Pacha,  wait  till  the  morning  light  ! 
Do  not  go  down  that  fearful  flight 


142  THE   THREE   GIAOURS 

Where  every  step  is  a  dead  man's  moan  ! 
Mujo  to-morrow  will  gather  each  bone 
And  bury  it  deep.     Let  the  Giaours  freeze 
If  thy  bed  be  warm." 

"  Nay,  give  me  the  keys. 
Girl,  you  talk  like  a  wrinkled  dame 
That  shudders  at  whisper  of  a  name. 
When  they  were  living,  their  curses  made 
A  thousand  cowards :  was  I  afraid  ? 
Now  they  are  dead,  shall  my  fear  begin 
With  the  Giaour's  curse,  or  the  skeleton's  grin  ? 
No,  I  must  see  them  face  to  face 
In  the  very  midst  of  their  dwelling-place, 
And  find  what  need  they  have  of  me 
That  they  call  my  name  eternally." 

As  groping  along  to  the  stair  he  goes, 

The  light  of  the  shaking  candle  shows 

A  face  like  a  white  and  faded  rose ; 

But  if  this  be  fear,  it  is  fear  to  stay, 

For  something  urges  him  on  his  way— 

Though  the  steps  are  cold  and  the  echoes  mock — 

Till  the  right  key  screams  in  the  rusted  lock. 

Ugh  !  what  a  blast  from  the  dungeon  dank  !  — 
From  the  place  where  Hunger  and  Death  were  wed ; 
Whence  even  the  snakes  by  instinct  fled, 


THE   THREE   GIAOURS  143 

While  the  very  lizards  crouched  and  shrank 
In  a  chill  of  terror.     'T  is  inky  black 
And  icy  cold,  but  he  cannot  go  back, 
For  there,  as  though  the  darkness  flowers — 
There  sit  the  skeletons  of  three  Giaours 
Ghost-white  in  the  flickering  candle-gleam  !  — 
(Or  is  it  the  remnant  of  his  dream  ?) 
About  a  stone  that  is  green  with  mold 
They  sit  in  a  group,  and  their  fingers  hold 
Full  glasses,  and  as  the  glasses  clink 
The  first  Giaour  beckons  him  to  drink. 

"  Pacha,  here  is  a  glass  for  thee  ! 

When  last  on  me  the  sunlight  shone 
I  had  a  wife  who  was  dear  to  me. 

She  was  alone — no,  not  alone ; 
The  blade  in  her  hand  was  her  comrade  true, 
As  she  came  to  your  castle,  seeking  you. 

"  And  when  she  came  to  your  castle  gate 
She  dared  you  forth,  but  you  would  not  go. 

Fiend  and  coward,  you  could  not  wait 
For  a  woman's  wrath,  but  shot  her,  so. 

Her  heart  fell  down  in  a  piteous  flood. 

This  glass  is  filled  with  her  precious  blood. 

"  See  how  fine  as  I  hold  it  up  ! 

Drink,  Feruz  Pacha,  the  brimming  cup  ! " 


144  THE    THREE   GIAOURS 

Spellbound  the  Pacha  now  draws  nigh ; 
He  empties  the  glass  with  a  sudden  cry : 
The  skeletons  drink  with  a  laugh  and  toss, 
And  they  make  the  sign  of  the  holy  cross. 

Then  speaks  the  second  of  the  dead : 
"  When  to  this  darkness  I  was  led, 

My  mother  asked,  '  What  sum  will  give 
Your  prisoner  back  to  the  sun  ?  '     You  said, 
'Three  measures  of  gold,  and  the  dog  shall 

live.' 

Through  pinching  toil  by  noon  and  night 
She  saved  and  saved  till  her  hope  grew  bright. 

"  But  when  she  brought  you  the  yellow  hoard, 
You  mocked  at  the  drops  on  her  tired  brow, 

And  said,  'Toward  the  pay  for  his  wholesome 

board 
Of  good  round  stones  I  will  this  allow.' 

She  died  while  her  face  with  toil  was  wet. 

This  glass  is  filled  with  her  faithful  sweat. 

"  See  how  fine  as  I  hold  it  up  ! 

Drink,  Feruz  Pacha,  the  brimming  cup  ! " 

Haggard  the  Pacha  now  stands  by ; 
He  drains  the  glass  with  a  stifled  cry : 


THE    THREE   GIAOURS  145 

Again  they  drink  with  a  laugh  and  toss, 

And  the  third  one  says,  as  his  comrades  cross : 

"  When  this  black  shadow  on  me  fell, 
There  sang  within  my  mountain  home 

My  one  pale  lad.     Bethought  him  well 
That  he  would  to  my  rescue  come ; 

But  when  he  tried  to  lift  the  gun 

He  tottered  till  the  tears  would  run. 

"  Though  vengeance  sped  his  wreary  feet, 
Too  late  he  came.     Then  back  he  crept,— 

Forgot  to  drink,  forgot  to  eat,— 
And  no  slow  moment  went  unwept. 

He  died  of  grief  at  his  meager  years. 

This  glass  is  laden  with  his  tears. 

"  See  how  fine  as  I  hold  it  up  ! 

Drink,  Feruz  Pacha,  the  brimming  cup  !" 

The  Pacha  staggers  ;  he  holds  it  high  ; 
He  drinks ;  he  falls  with  a  moan  and  cry : 
They  laugh,  they  cross,  but  they  drink  no  more— 
For  the  dead  in  the  dungeon-cave  are  four. 


10 


146  LUKA  FILIPOV 


LUKA    FILIPOV 

(AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE   MONTENEGRIN   WAR  OF  1876-78) 

ONE  more  hero  to  be  part 

Of  the  Servians'  glory  ! 
Lute  to  lute  and  heart  to  heart 

Tell  the  homely  story ; 
Let  the  Moslem  hide  for  shame, 
Trembling  like  the  falcon's  game, 
Thinking  on  the  falcon's  name — 
Luka  Filipov. 

When  he  fought  with  sword  and  gun 

Doughty  was  he  reckoned ; 
When  he  was  the  foremost,  none 

Blushed  to  be  the  second. 
But  he  tired  of  the  taint 
Of  the  Turk's  blood,  learned  restraint 
From  his  sated  sword— the  quaint 
Luka  Filipov. 


LUKA   FILIPOV 

Thus  he  reasoned :  Though  they  fall 

Like  the  grass  in  mowing, 
Yet  the  dead  Turks,  after  all, 

Make  a  sorry  showing. 
Foes  that  die  remember  not 
How  our  Montenegrins  bought 
Our  unbroken  freedom— thought 
Luka  Filipov. 

So,  in  last  year's  battle-storm 
Swooped  our  Servian  falcon, 

Chose  the  sleekest  of  the  swarm 
From  beyond  the  Balkan : 

Plucked  a  pacha  from  his  horse, 

Carried  him  away  by  force, 

While  we  cheered  along  his  course : 
"  Luka  !  "   "  Filipov  !  " 

To  the  Prince  his  prize  he  bore 

Just  as  he  had  won  him— 
Laid  him  at  the  Prince's  door, 

Not  a  scratch  upon  him. 
"  Prince,  a  present  !      And  for  fear 
He  should  find  it  lonely  here, 
I  will  fetch  his  mate,"  said  queer 
Luka  Filipov. 


148  LUKA   FILIPOV 

Back  into  the  fight  he  rushed 

Where  the  Turks  were  flying, 
Past  his  kinsmen  boldly  brushed, 

Leaping  dead  and  dying : 
Seized  a  stalwart  infidel, 
Wrenched  his  gun  and,  like  a  spell, 
Marched  him  back— him  heeding  well 
Luka  Filipov. 

But  the  Moslems,  catching  breath 

Mid  their  helter-skelter, 
Poured  upon  him  hail  of  death 

From  a  rocky  shelter, 
Till  a  devil-guided  ball 
Striking  one  yet  wounded  all : 
For  there  staggered,  nigh  to  fall, 
Luka  Filipov  ! 

Paused  the  conflict — all  intent 

On  the  two  before  us; 
And  the  Turkish  regiment 

Cheered  in  hideous  chorus 
As  the  prisoner,  half  afraid, 
Turned  and  started  up  the  glade, 
Thinking — dullard  !  — to  evade 
Luka  Filipov. 


LUKA   FILIPOV  149 

We  'd  have  fired— but  Luka's  hand 

Rose  in  protestation, 
While  his  pistol's  mute  command 

Needed  no  translation ; 
For  the  Turk  retraced  his  track, 
Knelt  and  took  upon  his  back 
(As  a  peddler  shifts  his  pack) 
Luka  Filipov  ! 

How  we  cheered  him  as  he  passed 
Through  the  line,  a-swinging 

Gun  and  pistol— bleeding  fast- 
Grim — but  loudly  singing: 

"  Lucky  me  to  find  a  steed    " 

Fit  to  give  the  Prince  for  speed  ! 

Rein  or  saddle  ne'er  shall  need 
Luka  Filipov  ! " 

So  he  urged  him  to  the  tent 

Where  the  Prince  was  resting— 
Brought  his  captive,  shamed  and  spent, 

To  make  true  his  jesting. 
And  as  couriers  came  to  say 
That  our  friends  had  won  the  day, 
Who  should  up  and  faint  away  ? 
Luka  Filipov. 


150  A   MOTHER   OF  BOSNIA 


A    MOTHER   OF   BOSNIA 


THREE  sons  she  has  of  Servian  mold 
As  balsam  for  her  widow's  grief, 

While  in  her  Danka  all  behold 
A  treasure  precious  past  belief. 

Oh,  lovely  Danka  !  happy  she, 
More  fortunate  than  all  beside, 

To  be  the  pride  of  brothers  three, 
Themselves  of  Bosnia  the  pride  ! 

In  her  they  glory ;  she  inspires 
To  freedom's  never-ending  fight, 

And  in  their  hearts  burn  patriot  fires, 
As  stars  upon  the  Turkish  night. 

And  often  at  the  mother's  door 

Tears  mingle  with  the  words  that  bless 


A   MOTHER   OF  BOSNIA  151 

"  O  gods  of  battle  !  guard  my  four— 
My  falcons  and  my  falconess." 


ii 


HER  radiant  beauty  nothing  hides— 
What  wonder  that  the  Turk  has  seen, 

And  as  before  her  door  he  rides 
The  Raven-Aga  calls  her  queen  ! 

For  three  nights  has  he  Iain  awake- 
To  call  on  Allah  ?     Nay,  till  dawn 

Calling  on  Danka,  for  whose  sake 
His  heart  is  sore,  his  brow  is  wan. 

He  gathers  warriors  ere  the  sun ; 

They  gallop  quickly  through  the  murk ; 
And  Danka,  at  the  signal-gun, 

Cries,  "  Save  me,  brothers  !  —'tis  the  Turk  ! " 

Now  flash  the  rifles,  speeds  the  fight, 
Till,  shamed,  the  Raven-Aga  flies. 

Alas  for  Danka  !  in  her  sight 
One  lion-hearted  brother  dies. 


A   MOTHER   OF  BOSNIA 

Again  the  infidel  appears, 

And  at  his  heels  ride  forty  guns ; 

But  at  the  voice  of  Danka's  fears 
Red  many  a  Turkish  stirrup  runs. 

But,  oh,  at  vespers,  when  once  more 
The  baffled  Raven  back  has  fled, 

Across  the  sill  of  Danka's  door 
There  lies  another  brother,  dead. 

The  Turkish  devil  once  again 

Summons  each  savage  wedding-guest, 

And  half  a  hundred  to  be  slain 

Go  forth  at  midnight  toward  the  west. 

Once  more  the  stealthy  Moslems  ride, 
Once  more  the  Servians  gather  fast, 

As  Danka  summons  to  her  side 
Her  brother— and  her  last. 

The  fight  grows  fiercer,  till  the  dead 
Fill  the  dim  street  from  wall  to  wall. 

Call  on  thy  mother,  Battle-wed — 
Thou  hast  no  brother  left  to  call  ! 

The  Raven  seizes  her  and  croaks : 

"  At  last  thou  art  my  bride,  proud  maid  ! 


A   MOTHER   OF  BOSNIA  153 

"  Not  thine— my  yataghan's  !  "    Two  strokes— 
Her  warm  heart  weds  the  loyal  blade. 


in 

DARK  is  the  night  as  on  the  slopes 
Of  that  deserted  battle-ground 

The  mother,  crazed  with  sorrow,  gropes 
Until  her  sons'  three  swords  are  found. 

And  as  she  roams  through  Servian  lands 
(Her  mirth  more  piteous  than  tears) 

She  bears  a  blade  in  her  thin  hands 
To  right  the  wrongs  of  many  years. 

And  offering  Danka's  plighted  knife 
Or  one  of  those  three  patriot  swords, 

She  calls  the  coldest  rock  to  strife,— 
"  Take,  and  repel  the  Turkish  hordes  ! " 

And  as  the  rock  no  word  replies, 

She  asks,  "  Are  you  not  Servian  too  ? 

Why  are  you  silent  then  ?"  she  cries ; 
"  Is  there  no  living  heart  in  you  ?  " 

She  treads  the  dreary  night  alone  ; 
There  is  no  echo  to  her  moan.   .   .  . 
Is  every  heart  a  heart  of  stone  ? 


154  THE  MONSTER 


THE    MONSTER 

"  IN  place  of  the  heart,  a  serpent ; 

Rage— for  the  mind's  command ; 
An  eye  aflame  with  wildness ; 

A  weapon  in  the  hand ; 

"  A  brow  with  midnight  clouded ; 

On  the  lips  a  cynic  smile 
That  tells  of  a  curse  unmatchable— 

Born  of  a  sin  most  vile. 

"  Of  longing,  or  hope,  or  virtue, 
No  vestige  may  there  be ; 

You,  even  in  vice  inhuman — 
What  can  you  want  of  me  ? 

"  You  in  its  maddest  moment 
The  Deepest  Pit  designed,— 

Let  loose  to  sow  confusion 
In  the  order  of  mankind ; 


THE  MONSTER  155 

"  Here  Hatred  found  you  crawling 

Like  vermin,  groveling,  prone, 
Filled  you  with  blood  of  others 

And  poisoned  all  your  own. 

"  Your  very  thoughts  are  fiendish- 
Smoke  of  the  fires  of  Hell. 

Weird  as  you  are,  how  is  it 
I  seem  to  know  you  well  ? 

"  Why  with  your  wild  delirium 

Do  you  infect  my  sleep  ? 
Why  with  my  daily  footstep 

An  equal  measure  keep  ?  " 


The  monster  mutely  beckons  me 
Back  with  his  ghostly  hand, 

And  dreading  his  fearful  answer 
I  heed  the  grim  command. 

"  Nay,  softly,"  he  says ;  "  I  pray  thee, 
Silence  thy  frightened  moan, 

And  wipe  the  sweat  from  thy  forehead ; 
My  kinsman  thou,  my  own! 


THE  MONSTER 

"  Look  at  me  well,  good  cousin ; 

Such  wert  thou  fashioned  of  ! 
Thou,  too,  wouldst  me  resemble 

Without  that  magic— Love!" 


TWO  DREAMS  157 


TWO    DREAMS 

DEEP  on  the  bosom  of  Jeel-Begzad 

(Darling  daughter  of  stern  Bidar) 
Sleeps  the  rose  of  her  lover  lad. 

It  brings  this  word :   When  the  zenith-star 
Melts  in  the  full  moon's  rising  light, 
Then  shall  her  Giaour  come— to-night. 

What  is  the  odor  that  fills  her  room  ? 

Ah  !  't  is  the  dream  of  the  sleeping  rose : 
To  feel  his  lips  near  its  velvet  bloom 

In  the  secret  shadow  no  moonbeam  knows, 
Till  the  maiden  passion  within  her  breast 
Kindles  to  flame  where  the  kisses  rest. 

By  the  stealthy  fingers  of  old  Bidar 

(Savage  father  of  Jeel-Begzad) 
Never  bloodless  in  peace  or  war 

Was  a  handjar  sheathed ;  and  each  one  had 
Graved  on  its  handle  a  Koran  prayer — 
He  can  feel  it  now,  in  his  ambush  there  ! 


158  TWO  DREAMS 

The  moon  rides  pale  in  the  quiet  night ; 

It  puts  out  the  stars,  but  never  the  gleam 
Of  the  waiting  blade's  foreboding  light, 

Astir  in  its  sheath  in  a  horrid  dream 
Of  pain,  of  blood,  and  of  gasping  breath, 
Of  the  thirst  of  vengeance  drenched  in  death. 

The  dawn  did  the  dream  of  the  rose  undo, 
But  the  dream  of  the  sleeping  blade  came  true. 


MYSTERIOUS  LOVE  159 


MYSTERIOUS   LOVE 

INTO  the  air  I  breathed  a  sigh ; 

She,  afar,  another  breathed— 
Sighs  that,  like  a  butterfly, 
Each  went  wandering  low  and  high, 

Till  the  air  with  sighs  was  wreathed. 

When  each  other  long  they  sought, 

On  a  star-o'er-twinkled  hill 
Jasmine,  trembling  with  the  thought, 
Both  within  her  chalice  caught, 
A  lover's  potion  to  distil. 

Drank  of  this  a  nightingale, 

Guided  by  the  starlight  wan— 
Drank  and  sang  from  dale  to  dale, 
Till  every  streamlet  did  exhale 
Incense  to  the  waking  dawn. 

Like  the  dawn,  the  maiden  heard ; 
While,  afar,  I  felt  the  fire 


/6o  MYSTERIOUS  LOVE 

In  the  bosom  of  the  bird  ; 
Forth  our  sighs  again  were  stirred 
With  a  sevenfold  desire. 

These  we  followed  till  we  learned 
Where  they  trysted  ;  there  erelong 

Their  fond  nightingale  returned. 

Deeper  then  our  longings  burned, 
Deeper  the  delights  of  song. 

Now,  when  at  the  wakening  hour, 

Sigh  to  sigh,  we  greet  his  lay, 
Well  we  know  its  mystic  power- 
Feeling  dawn  and  bird  and  flower 
Pouring  meaning  into  May. 

Jasmine,  perfume  every  grove  ! 

Nightingale,  forever  sing 
To  the  brightening  dawn  above 
Of  the  mystery  of  love 

In  the  mystery  of  spring  ! 


THE   COMING   OF  SONG  161 


THE   COMING   OF   SONG 

WHEN  the  sky  darkened  on  the  first  great  sin, 

And  gates  that  shut  man  out  shut  Hope  within, 

Like  to  the  falcon  when  his  wing  is  broke, 

The  bitter  cry  of  mortals  then  awoke : 

"  Too  heavy  is  our  burden,"  groaned  the  two. 

"  Shall  woes  forever  on  our  track  pursue, 

And  nest  within  these  empty  hearts  ?     Or,  worse, 

Shall  we  be  withered  by  the  cruel  curse  ? 

Already  less  than  human,  shall  we  fall 

By  slow  succession  to  some  animal  ?  " 

Then,  filled  with  pity  at  the  desperate  cry, 

Came  from  His  throne  of  thunder  the  Most  High : 

"  That  you  should  suffer  "  (spake  the  Voice)  "  is  just 

'T  is  you  have  chosen  for  a  feast  a  crust. 

But  not  so  unrelenting  I — the  least 

Of  all  your  kind  shall  be  above  the  beast. 

That  erring  mortals  be  not  lost  in  fear, 

Come  from  My  shining  courts,  O  daughter  dear  ! 
11 


1 62  THE   COMING   OF  SONG 

Thou  dost  to  heaven,  shalt  to  earth  belong." 
She  came ;  she  stayed :  it  was  the  Muse  of  Song. 

Again  the  day  was  radiant  with  light, 

And  something  more  than  stars  illumed  the  night. 

Hope,  beckoning,  to  the  desert  took  its  flight. 

Where  is  Pain  and  dire  Distress, 
Song  shall  soothe  like  soft  caress ; 
Though  the  stoutest  courage  fails, 
Song  's  an  anchor  in  all  gales ; 
When  all  others  fail  to  reach, 
Song  shall  be  the  thrilling  speech ; 
Love  and  friends  and  comfort  fled, 
Song  shall  linger  by  your  bed ; 
And  when  Doubt  shall  question,  Why  ? 
Song  shall  lift  you  to  the  sky. 


CURSES  163 


CURSES 

FAIN  would  I  curse  thee,  sweet  unkind! 

That  thou  art  fair ; 
Fain  curse  my  mother,  that  not  blind 

She  did  me  bear ; 
But,  no  !  —each  curse  would  break,  not  bind, 

The  heart  ye  share. 


1 64          A   FAIRY  FROM  THE  SUN-SHOWER 


A   FAIRY    FROM   THE   SUN-SHOWER 

[When  the  Servians  see  the  sun-rays  of  a  summer  shower  they 
say  it  is  the  fairies  combing  their  hair.] 

OVER  the  meadow  a  shower  is  roaming ; 

Just  beyond  is  the  summer  sun ; 
Fair  is  the  hair  that  the  fays  are  combing — 

Myth  come  true  !  here  's  my  dainty  one 
Tripping  the  path  in  the  wind's  soft  blowing ; 
Her  slender  form  through  her  gown  is  showing, 
Her  foot  scarce  whispers  the  way  she  's  going. 

"  Come,  my  bright  one,  come,  my  soul, 

Let  my  kisses  be  your  goal." 

But  the  path  has  heard  my  sighing, 

Turns  aside,  and  leads  my  fay 
Into  the  forest,  love  defying. 

Path,  accursed  be  !  —  but  stay  ! 
Lost  to  love  each  moment  gliding, 
What  if  in  the  woodland  hiding 
Still  for  me  my  fay  be  biding  !    .  .  . 

"  Wait,  my  bright  one,  wait,  my  soul, 

Your  sweet  kisses  are  my  goal." 


FRAGMENT  FROM   THE  "  GIULICHE"        165 


"WHY,"    YOU    ASK,  "HAS   NOT   THE 
SERVIAN    PERISHED?" 

FRAGMENT    FROM    THE    "  GIULICHE  "    ("  JEWELS") 

"  WHY,"  you  ask,  "  has  not  the  Servian  perished, 
Such  calamities  about  him  throng  ?  " 

With  the  sword  alike  the  lyre  he  cherished : 
He  is  saved  by  Song! 


1 66  "/  BEGGED  A   KISS  OF  A   LITTLE  MAID 


I    BEGGED   A   KISS   OF  A   LITTLE    MAID 

I  BEGGED  a  kiss  of  a  little  maid ; 

Shyly,  sweetly,  she  consented ; 
Then  of  a  sudden,  all  afraid, 

After  she  gave  it,  she  repented ; 
And  now  as  penance  for  that  one  kiss 
She  asks  a  poem— I  '11  give  her  this. 

But  how  can  my  song  be  my  very  best 
When  she,  with  a  voice  as  soft  as  Circe's,  . 

Has  charmed  the  heart  from  my  lonely  breast- 
The  heart,  the  fountain  of  all  true  verses  ? 

Why,  oh,  why  should  a  maid  do  this  ? 

No— I  must  give  her  back  her  kiss. 


WHY  THE  ARMY  BECAME   QUIET          167 


WHY   THE   ARMY   BECAME    QUIET 

SOME  said  they  did  but  play  at  war,— 
How  that  may  be,  ah  !  who  can  tell  ? 

I  know  the  gallant  army  corps 
Upon  their  fleeing  foemen  fell, 

And  sacked  their  camp,  and  took  their  town, 

And  won  both  victory  and  renown. 

Now  home  returning,  wild  with  song, 
They  come,  the  colors  flying  free. 

But  as  within  the  door  they  throng, 
Why  does  the  army  suddenly 

Hush  the  fierce  din,  and  silence  keep  ?— 

Why,  little  brother  is  asleep. 


1 68  THE   GIPSY  PRAISES  HIS  HORSE 


THE    GIPSY    PRAISES   HIS   HORSE 

You  're  admiring  my  horse,  sir,  I  see. 

He  's  so  light  that  you  'd  think  it  's  a  bird- 
Say  a  swallow.     Ah  me  ! 

He  's  a  prize  ! 

It  's  absurd 
To  suppose  you  can  take  him  all  in  as  he  passes 

With  the  best  pair  of  eyes, 

Or  the  powerful  aid 
Of  your  best  pair  of  glasses : 

Take  'em  off,  and  let 's  trade. 

What !      "  Is  Selim  as  good  as  he  seems  ?  " 

Never  fear, 

Uncle  dear, 
He  's  as  good  as  the  best  of  your  dreams, 

And  as  sound  as  your  sleep. 

It  's  only  that  kind  that  a  gipsy  would  keep. 
The  emperor's  stables  can't  furnish  his  mate. 
But  his  grit  and  his  gait, 


THE   GIPSY  PRAISES  HIS  HORSE  t 

And  his  wind  and  his  ways, 

A  gipsy  like  me  does  n't  know  how  to  praise. 
But  (if  truth  must  be  told) 
Although  you  should  cover  him  over  with  gold 
He  'd  be  worth  one  more  sovereign  still. 

"  Is  he  old  ?  " 

Oh,  don't  look  at  his  teeth,  my  dear  sir  ! 
I  never  have  seen  'em  myself. 
Age  has  nothing  to  do  with  an  elf ; 

So  it  's  fair  to  infer 
My  fairy  can  never  grow  old. 
Oh,  don't  look— (Here,  my  friend, 
Will  you  do  me  the  kindness  to  hold 
For  a  moment  these  reins  while  I  'tend 
To  that  fly  on  his  shanks  ?)  .  .  . 
As  I  said— (Ah— now— thanks  !) 
The  longer  you  drive 
The  better  he  '11  thrive. 
He  '11  never  be  laid  on  the  shelf  ! 

The  older  that  colt  is,  the  younger  he  '11  grow. 
I  Ve  tried  him  for  years,  and  I  know. 

"  Eat  ?  Eat  ?  "  do  you  say  ? 

Oh,  that  nag  is  n't  nice 

About  eating  !     Whatever  you  have  will  suffice. 


I  70  THE   GIPSY  PRAISES  HIS  HORSE 

He  takes  everything  raw- 
Some  oats  or  some  hay, 

Or  a  small  wisp  of  straw, 

If  you  have  it.     If  not,  never  mind — 
Selim  won't  even  neigh. 
What  kind  of  a  feeder  is  he  ?    That  's  the  kind  ! 

"  Is  he  clever  at  jumping  a  fence  ?  " 
What  a  question  to  ask  !      He  's  immense 

At  a  leap  ! 

How  absurd  ! 

Why,  the  trouble  's  to  keep 
Such  a  Pegasus  down  to  the  ground. 
He  takes  every  fence  at  a  bound 
With  the.  grace  of  a  bird  ; 

And  so  great  is  his  strength, 

And  so  keen  is  his  sense, 

He  goes  over  a  fence 
Not  across,  but  the  way  of  its  length  ! 

"  Under  saddle  ?  "     No  saddle  for  Selim  ! 
Why,  you  've  only  to  mount  him,  and  feel  him 

Fly  level  and  steady,  to  see 

What  disgrace  that  would  be. 
No,  you  could  n't  more  deeply  insult  him,  unless 
You  attempted  to  guess 

And  pry  into  his  pedigree. 


THE   GIPSY  PRAISES  HIS  HORSE  171 

Now  why  should  you  speak  of  his  eyes  ? 

Does  he  seem  like  a  horse  that  would  need 

An  eye-glass  to  add  to  his  speed 
Or,  perchance,  to  look  wise  ? 

No  indeed. 

Why,  not  only  's  the  night  to  that  steed 
Just  the  same  as  the  day, 

But  he  knows  all  that  passes — 
Both  before  and  behind,  either  way. 

Oh,  he  does  n't  need  glasses  ! 

"  Has  he  any  defect  ?  "     What  a  question,  my  friend  ! 

That  is  why,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  willing  to  sell. 

You  know  very  well 

It  is  only  the  horse  that  you  give  or  you  lend 
That  has  glanders,  or  springhalt,  or  something  to  mend : 

'T  is  because  not  a  breath 

Of  defect  or  of  death 

Can  be  found  on  my  Selim  that  he 's  at  your  pleasure. 
Alas  !  not  for  gipsies  the  care  of  such  treasure. 

And  now  about  speed.     "  Is  he  fast  ?  "     I  should  say  ! 
Just  listen— I  '11  tell  you. 

One  equinox  day, 

Coming  home  from  Erdout  in  the  usual  way, 
A  terrible  storm  overtook  us.     T  was  plain 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  run  for  it.     Rain, 


i?2  THE   GIPSY  PRAISES  HIS  HORSE 

Like  the  blackness  of  night,  gave  us  chase.    But  that  nag, 
Though  he  'd  had  a  hard  day,  did  n't  tremble  or  sag. 

Then  the  lightning  would  flash, 

And  the  thunder  would  crash 

With  a  terrible  din. 

They  were  eager  to  catch  him ;  but  he  would  just  neigh, 
Squint  back  to  make  sure,  and  then  gallop  away. 
Well,  this  made  the  storm  the  more  furious  yet, 
And  we  raced  and  we  raced,  but  he  was  n't  upset, 

And  he  would  n't  give  in  ! 
At  last  when  we  got  to  the  foot  of  the  hill 

At  the  end  of  the  trail, 

By  the  stream  where  our  white  gipsy  castle  was  set, 
And  the  boys  from  the  camp  came  a-waving  their  caps, 

At  a  word  he  stood  still, 
To  be  hugged  by  the  girls  and  be  praised  by  the  chaps. 

We  had  beaten  the  gale, 
And  Selim  was  dry  as  a  bone — well,  perhaps, 

Just  a  little  bit  damp  on  the  tip  of  his  tail.* 

*  Readers  will  be  reminded  by  this  conclusion  of  Mark  Twain's 
story  of  the  fast  horse  as  told  to  him  by  Oudinot,  of  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  and  recorded  in  "  The  Galaxy"  for  April,  1871.  In  that 
veracious  narrative  it  is  related  that  not  a  single  drop  fell  on  the 
driver,  but  the  dog  was  swimming  behind  the  wagon  all  the  way. 


THE    VOICE    OF   WEBSTER 


THE    VOICE   OF  WEBSTER  17 


THE   VOICE    OF   WEBSTER 

SILENCE  was  envious  of  the  only  voice 

That  mightier  seemed  than  she.     So,  cloaked  as  Death, 

With  potion  borrowed  from  Oblivion, 

Yet  with  slow  step  and  tear-averted  look, 

She  sealed  his  lips,  closed  his  extinguished  eyes, 

And  veiling  him  with  darkness,  deemed  him  dead. 

But  no !  —  There  's  something  vital  in  the  great 

That  blunts  the  edge  of  Death,  and  sages  say 

You  should  stab  deep  if  you  would  kill  a  king. 

In  vain !    The  conqueror's  conqueror  he  remains, 

Surviving  his  survivors.     And  as  when, 

The  prophet  gone,  his  least  disciple  stands 

Newly  invested  with  a  twilight  awe, 

So  linger  men  beside  his  listeners 

While  they  recount  that  miracle  of  speech 

And  the  hushed  wonder  over  which  it  fell. 

What  do  they  tell  us  of  that  fabled  voice? 
Breathing  an  upper  air,  wherein  he  dwelt 
'Mid  shifting  clouds  a  mountain  of  resolve, 
And  falling  like  Sierra's  April  flood 
12 


I?8  THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER 

That  pours  in  ponderous  cadence  from  the  cliff, 
Waking  Yosemite  from  her  sleep  of  snow, 
And  less  by  warmth  than  by  its  massive  power 
Thawing  a  thousand  torrents  into  one. 
Such  was  his  speech,  and  were  his  fame  to  die 
Such  for  its  requiem  alone  were  fit : 
Some  kindred  voice  of  Nature,  as  the  Sea 
When  autumn  tides  redouble  their  lament 
On  Marshfield  shore ;  some  elemental  force 
Kindred  to  Nature  in  the  mind  of  man— 
A  far-felt,  rhythmic,  and  resounding  wave 
Of  Homer,  or  a  freedom-breathing  wind 
Sweeping  the  height  of  Milton's  loftiest  mood. 
Most  fit  of  all,  could  his  own  words  pronounce 
His  eulogy,  eclipsing  old  with  new, 
As  though  a  dying  star  should  burst  in  light. 

And  yet  he  spoke  not  only  with  his  voice. 

His  full  brow,  buttressing  a  dome  of  thought, 

Moved  the  imagination  like  the  rise 

Of  some  vast  temple  covering  nothing  mean. 

His  eyes  were  sibyls'  caves,  wherein  the  wise 

Read  sibyls'  secrets ;  and  the  iron  clasp 

Of  those  broad  lips,  serene  or  saturnine, 

Made  proclamation  of  majestic  will. 

His  glance  could  silence  like  a  frowning  Fate. 


THE    VOICE   OF  WEBSTER  179 

His  mighty  frame  was  refuge,  while  his  mien 
Did  make  dispute  of  stature  with  the  gods. 

See,  in  the  Senate,  how  his  presence  towers 

Above  the  tallest,  who  but  seem  as  marks 

To  guide  the  unwonted  gaze  to  where  he  stands, 

First  of  his  peers— a  lordly  company. 

Each  State  still  gave  the  others  of  its  best— 

Our  second  race  of  giants,  now,  alas! 

Buried  beneath  the  lava-beds  of  war. 

Not  yet  had  weaklings  trod  the  purchased  path 

To  a  feigned  honor  in  the  curule  chair, 

Holding  a  world's  contempt  of  them  for  fame  — 

As  one  should  take  the  leaves  stripped  from  his  scourge 

To  wreathe  himself  a  counterfeit  of  bay. 

An  age  is  merely  Man,  and,  thus  compact, 

Must  grimly  expiate  paternal  sins ; 

That  age's  shame  stands  naked  to  the  world, 

And  no  man  dares  to  hide  it ;  yet  one  boast 

Palsies  the  pointing  finger  of  to-day : 

'  T  was  slave,  not  master,  that  we  bought  and  sold. 

Oh  for  fit  word  of  scorn  to  execrate 
Our  brood  new-born  of  Greed  and  Liberty! 
Not  the  blind  mass  of  stumbling  ignorance 
(For  the  dread  portent  of  a  blackening  cloud 


i8o  THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER 

May  by  bold  shafts  of  sunlight  be  dispersed), 
But  those  who  lead  them  to  the  nation's  hurt — 
These  our  kind  neighbors,  semblances  of  men, 
The  Church's  bulwark,  the  beloved  of  homes, 
Locked  fast  in  friendship's  ever-loyal  pledge, 
Yet  to  whom  treason  is  their  daily  breath. 
Not  Lucifer,  on  each  conspiring  wind 
Rallying  his  abject  crew  to  new  assaults ; 
Not  all  the  recreant  names  that  spawning  War 
Has  cursed  with  immortality,  can  match 
The  craft  of  their  betrayals.     All  is  sold : 
Law,  justice,  mercy,  and  the  future's  hope— 
This  land  that  buoys  the  fainting  fears  of  Man. 
Yet  to  praise  Webster  one  of  these  has  dared !  — 
Webster,  undaunted  by  the  hour's  reproof, 
Webster,  untempted  by  the  hour's  applause, 
Who  scorned  to  win  by  any  art  but  truth! 
Who,  had  he  heard  the  impious  flattery, 
Across  the  Senate  would  have  launched  his  wrath, 
Like  Cicero  on  cowering  Catiline, 
In  one  white  passion  that  forevermore 
Had  saved  to  Infamy  an  empty  name 
That  now  he  spurns  in  silence  from  his  grave. 

Yet  had  he  frailties,  which  let  those  recount 
Who  have  not  seen  the  nigh-o'erwhelmed  state 


THE    VOICE  OF  WEBSTER  181 

Rescued  from  peril  by  some  roisterer's  skill 

While  all  the  petted  virtues  of  the  home 

Stood  pale  and  helpless.     Time  's  a  mountain-wall 

That  gives  a  fainter  echo  to  one's  best, 

But  unto  weak  or  wanting,  mere  disdain. 

He  had  his  passions — all  but  one  are  dead: 

That  was  his  country.     Never  lover  loved, 

Soldier  defended,  poet  praised,  as  he, 

Who  marveled  all  should  worship  not  his  queen, 

And  unto  whoso  loved  her  much  forgave. 

And  when,  one  desperate  day,  the  threatening  hand 

His  hand  so  long  arrested,  he  being  gone, 

Felt  'neath  its  pillow  for  the  unsheath'd  sword, 

Who  spoke  for  Union  but  with  Webster's  voice? 

Who  struck  for  Union  but  with  Webster's  arm? 

Forgetful  of  the  father  in  the  son, 

Men  praised  in  Lincoln  what  they  blamed  in  him. 

And  though,  his  natural  tenderness  grown  grave, 

He  lives  not  in  Love's  immortality 

Like  Lincoln,  shrined  within  his  foeman's  heart ; 

Though  he  trod  not  the  path  of  him  whose  soul 

Triumphed  in  song  that  beckoned  armies  on 

More  than  persuading  drum,  dare-devil  fife, 

Or  clarion  bugle ;  though  no  battle-flame 

Rose  to  a  peak  in  him :  yet  was  his  blood 

In  heroes  and  his  wrath  in  righteous  war. 


1 82  THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER 

Then  did  the  vision  of  his  patriot  hope, 
Pictured  in  pleading  but  in  warning  words, 
Inspire  the  inspirers,  nerve  the  halting  brave, 
Make  triflers  solemn  with  the  choice  of  death. 
And  when  at  last  came  Peace,  the  friend  of  all, 
Grateful  and  wondrous  as  first  drops  of  rain 
After  the  long  starvation  of  the  drought, 
Men  harkened  back  to  that  prophetic  hour 
When  two  protagonists,  like  chosen  knights, 
Made  long  and  suave  epitome  of  war : 
When  Hayne  arose  't  was  Sumter's  gun  was  heard, 
When  \Vebster  closed  't  was  Appomattox  field. 

But  oh,  his  larger  triumph  was  to  come! 

His  voice,  in  victory  potent,  was  in  peace 

Predominant.     His  all-benignant  thought 

That,  never  wavering  through  the  strife  of  words, 

No  Alleghanies,  no  Potomac  knew, 

Searching  the  future  to  bring  olive  back, 

Lived  like  a  fragrance  in  the  heart  of  Grant, 

And  at  the  perilous  moment  of  success 

Pointed  the  path  to  concord  from  the  grave. 

And  what  famed  concord!  — not  a  grudging  truce, 

Nor  interlude  of  hate,  but  peace  divine : 

When  hands  with  blood  still  wet  again  were  clasped, 

Each  foe  forgiving  what  is  ne'er  forgot ; 


THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER  183 

The  hacked  sword  eager  for  the  scabbard's  rest, 
Not  from  the  fear,  but  for  the  love  of  man. 
O  loftier  conquest  of  the  Blue  that  warred 
For  freedom,  not  for  conquest!    Victory, 
Unsought,  of  all  the  hardly  vanquished  Gray! 
Marvel  of  Europe  staggering  in  arms ; 
Message  of  Hope  unto  the  souls  that  herd 
Dumb  at  the  slaughter  for  the  whim  of  kings ; 
Lusus  of  History  until  wars  shall  cease. 
My  country!  since  nor  memory  of  strife, 
Nor  natural  vengeance,  nor  the  orphan's  tears 
Can  from  Love's  nobler  triumph  hale  thee  back : 
Who  worthier  than  thou  to  lead  the  way 
Unto  the  everlasting  Truce  of  God, 
When  brothers  shall  toward  brothers  over  sea 
Stretch  not  the  sword-blade,  but  the  open  palm, 
Till  on  Time's  long  but  ever-upward  slope 
They  mount  together  to  unreckoned  heights, 
And  grateful  nations  gladly  follow  them  ! 

So  sang  I,  proud  to  be  but  one  of  all 
The  sands  upon  a  shore  whereon  there  breaks, 
Freighted  with  purpose  vast,  the  will  of  Heaven— 
When  a  rude  clash  I  heard,  that  yet  I  hear, 
As  Discord  grasped  again  her  rusted  harp 
And  struck  new  terror  from  the  raveled  strings, 


1 84  THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER 

Calling  Ambition  blindfold  to  the  lead 
Of  Want,  Dishonor,  Perfidy,  and  Crime, 
Who  in  their  turn  misguide  the  innocent, 
Groping  their  way  by  the  last  firebrands 
Plucked  from  their  holocaust  of  hoarded  truth. 
The  air  we  fancied  peaceful  as  the  noon 
Was  dark  with  sudden  hatred,  as  with  cloud 
Blown,  in  long-gathered  tempest,  from  the  West, 
Like  a  wild  storm  of  summer  heat  and  wind 
Circling  in  passion,  bruited  by  dismay, 
And  dragging  death  and  chaos  in  its  train, 
As  some  old  myth  of  savagery  come  true, 
And  Nature  had  turned  demon,  rending  Man. 

This  madness  Webster  still  can  medicine, 

Who  was  physician  to  its  earlier  taint. 

He  did  not  fury  then  with  fury  meet, 

But  to  the  sanity  of  eternal  law 

Wooed  back  the  wandering  mind.     Who  could  forget 

His  calming  presence  when,  ere  he  began, 

Confusion  fled  before  his  morning  look 

Of  power  miraculously  new  and  mild ; 

The  speech  as  temperate  as  a  wind  of  May ; 

The  mind  as  candid  as  the  noonday  light ; 

The  tones  deliberate,  confident,  sedate, 

Waking  no  passion,  and  yet  moving  all 


THE    VOICE   OF  WEBSTER  185 

With  such  a  high  compulsion  that  at  length 
Reason,  the  king  that  well-nigh  had  been  lost 
Upon  the  confines  of  his  sovereign  realm, 
Remounted  to  the  throne  with  steady  step, 
And  men  again  were  proud  of  his  control. 

So,  in  these  days  of  hopeful  hearts'  despair, 

When  perils  threat,  ay,  throng  the  ship  of  state, 

And  less  from  gale  without  than  torch  within, 

Who — who  but  Webster  with  his  faith  serene 

Shall  rouse  the  sleeping  to  command  their  fate, 

Shall  bid  them  steer  by  the  unswerving  stars, 

And  in  them  troth  with  Liberty  renew? 

Imagination  gave  his  spirit  wings, 

That,  seeing  past  the  tempest  and  the  flame, 

He  might  remind  us  of  our  destiny : 

To  save  from  faction  what  was  meant  for  Man ; 

To  cherish  brotherhood,  simplicity, 

The  chance  for  each  that  is  the  hope  for  all ; 

To  guard  the  realm  from  Sloth,  and  Greed,  and  Waste— 

The  sateless  Gorgons  of  democracy ; 

And  above  all,  whatever  storm  may  rage, 

To  cling  to  Law,  the  path  of  Liberty, 

The  prop  of  heaven,  the  very  pulse  of  God. 

Thus  our  new  soil,  the  home  of  every  seed, 

Where  first  the  whole  world  meets  on  equal  terms, 


1 86  THE    VOICE   OF   WEBSTER 

Shall  such  new  marvels  show  of  man's  estate 
In  knowledge,  wisdom,  beauty,  virtue,  power, 
The  Past  shall  fade  in  pity  or  in  scorn, 
While  fresher  joys  shall  thrill  the  pulse  of  earth. 

No,  Webster's  fame  not  Webster's  self  can  blot. 

Fair  is  perfection's  image  in  the  soul, 

And  yearning  for  it  holds  the  world  to  good. 

Yet  is  it  such  a  jewel  as  may  not 

Unto  a  single  guardian  be  entrust, 

But  to  the  courage  of  a  multitude 

Who  all  together  have  what  each  may  lack. 

Though  men  may  falter,  it  is  Virtue's  strength 

To  be  indelible  :  our  smallest  good 

By  our  worst  evil  cannot  be  undone. 

The  discords  of  that  life — how  short  they  fall, 

Like  ill-strung  arrows!      But  its  harmonies — 

Harmonious  speech  large  with  harmonious  thought- 

Dwell  in  a  nation's  peace,  a  nation's  hope, 

Imperishable  music  ;  not  the  rhythm 

Of  some  remembering  moment,  but  the  peal 

And  crash  of  conflict  unforgettable 

Piercing  the  mid  and  thick  of  night.     No,  no, 

That  voice  of  thunder  died  not  with  the  storm, 

But  in  the  dull  and  coward  times  of  peace 

Long  shall  its  echoes  rouse  the  patriot's  heart. 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 


The  War  of  Independence  was  virtually  a  second  Eng 
lish  civil  war.  The  ruin  of  the  American  cause  would 
have  been  also  the  ruin  of  the  constitutional  cause  in 
England;  and  a  patriotic  Englishman  may  revere  the 
memory  of  Patrick  Henry  and  George  Washington  not 
less  justly  than  the  patriotic  American. 

— JOHN  MORLEY,  on  Burke. 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 


HANDS   ACROSS   SEA 


ENGLAND,  thou  breeder  of  heroes  and  of  bards, 

Had  ever  nation  manlier  shield  or  song! 

For  thee  such  rivalry  have  sword  and  pen, 

Fame,  from  her  heaped  green,  crowns  with  equal  hand 

The  deathless  deed  and  the  immortal  word. 

For  which  dost  thou  thy  Sidney  hold  more  dear, 

Defense  of  England  or  of  Poesie? 

Cromwell  or  Milton — if  man's  guiding  stars 

Could  vanish  as  they  came — which  wouldst  thou  spare? 

Lost  Kempenfelt  indeed,  were  Cowper  mute! 

To  victory,  not  alone  on  shuddering  seas 

Rode  Nelson,  but  on  Campbell's  tossing  rhyme. 

Hark  to  thy  great  Duke's  greater  dirge,  and  doubt 

For  which  was  Waterloo  the  worthier  won, 

To  change  the  tyrant  on  a  foreign  throne, 

Or  add  a  faultless  ode  to  English  song. 

Great  deeds  make  poets :  by  whose  nobler  word, 

In  turn,  the  blood  of  heroes  is  transfused 


192  HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 

Into  the  veins  of  sluggards,  till  they  rise, 
Surprised,  exalted  to  the  height  of  men. 

Nor  can  Columbia  choose  between  the  two 

Which  give  more  glory  to  thy  Minster  gloom. 

They  are  our  brave,  our  deathless,  our  divine— 

Our  Saxon  grasp  on  their  embattled  swords, 

Our  Saxon  numbers  in  their  lyric  speech. 

We  grudge  no  storied  wreath,  nay,  would  withhold 

Of  bay  or  laurel  not  one  envied  leaf. 

Then,  on  thy  proud  cliff  fronting  Europe-ward, 

Strong  in  thyself,  not  by  some  weaker  prop, 

Give  to  the  greeting  of  a  kindred  voice 

A  moment  in  the  ebb  of  thy  disdain. 


ii 


Is  it  but  chance  that  in  thy  treasured  verse 
There  is  no  paean,  no  exulting  line, 
No  phrase  of  martial  fervor,  to  record 
The  Briton's  prowess  on  our  Western  shore? 
There  was  no  lapse  of  valiance  in  thy  race— 
Or  else  had  Time  forgot  to  mark  the  years. 
Nor  hast  thou  since  had  lack  of  many  a  voice 
Whose  words,  like  wings  to  seed,  on  every  air 
From  land  to  hospitable  land  import 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA  193 

Thy  progeny  of  courage,  justice,  truth. 
Why,  then,  when  all  our  songs  were  resonant, 
Were  all  thy  singers  silent?     Candor,  speak! 
There  is  a  daemon  makes  the  Muses  dumb 
When  they  would  praise  the  wrong :  but  Liberty 
From  Nature  has  inheritance  of  speech— 
The  forest  harp,  the  flood's  processional, 
The  glorious  antiphone  of  every  shore. 
When  these  are  dumb,  then  poets  may  be  mute ! 


in 

TAUGHT  by  thy  heroes,  summoned  by  thy  bards, 
Against  the  imperious  folly  of  thy  kings 
Twice  our  reluctant  banners  were  arrayed. 
What  matter  if  the  victors  were  not  thine, 
If  thine  the  victories?     Thou  art  more  secure 
Saved  from  the  canker  of  successful  wrong. 
Thou  dost  not  blush  for  Naseby,  where,  of  old, 
England  most  conquered,  conquering  Englishmen. 
So  when  thou  hear'st  the  trumpets  in  our  verse 
In  praise  of  our  new  land's  deliverance, 
Hard  won  from  Winter,  Hunger,  and  from  thee, 
And  from  those  allies  thou  didst  hire  and  scorn, 
Deem  it  not  hatred,  nor  the  vulgar  pride 
Of  the  arena,  nor  the  greed  of  fame. 

13 


194  HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 

(Twixt  men  or  nations,  there  's  no  victory 

Save  when  an  angel  overcomes  in  both.) 

Would  all  our  strife  were  blameless!      Some,  alas! 

Hath  trophies  hoarded  only  to  be  hid, 

For  courage  cannot  hallow  wanton  war. 

Be  proud  our  hand  against  thee  ne'er  was  raised 

But  to  wrench  English  justice  from  thy  grasp. 

And,  as  to  landsmen,  far  from  windy  shores, 

The  breathing  shell  may  bear  the  murmuring  sea, 

Still  in  our  patriot  song  reverberates 

The  mighty  voice  that  sang  at  Hampden's  side. 


IV 

TRUE,  there  are  those  of  our  impassioned  blood 

Who  can  forget  but  slowly  that  thy  great 

Misread  the  omens  of  our  later  strife, 

And  knew  not  Freedom  when  she  called  to  thee. 

These  think  they  hate  thee!  — these,  who  have  embraced 

Before  the  altar  their  fraternal  foes! 

Not  white  of  York  and  red  of  Lancaster 

More  kindly  mingle  in  thy  rose  of  peace 

Than  blend  in  cloudless  dawn  our  blue  and  gray. 

Already  Time  and  History  contend 

For  sinking  rampart  and  the  grassy  ridge 

That  with  its  challenge  startles  pilgrim  feet 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA  195 

Along  the  fringes  of  the  wounded  wood. 

The  bedtime  wonder  of  our  children  holds 

Vicksburg  coeval  with  the  siege  of  Troy, 

And  the  scorned  slave  so  hastened  to  forgive 

The  scar  has  lost  remembrance  of  the  lash. 

Since  Love  has  drawn  the  sting  of  that  distress, 

For  one  with  wrath  to  compass  sea  and  years 

Were  but  to  make  of  injury  'a  jest, 

Holding  the  occasion  guiltier  than  the  cause. 

But  Hate  's  a  weed  that  withers  in  the  sun ; 

A  cell  of  which  the  prisoner  holds  the  key, 

His  will  his  jailer ;  nay,  a  frowning  tower 

Invincible  by  legions,  but  with  still 

One  secret  weakness :  who  can  hate  may  love. 

Oh,  pausing  in  thy  cordon  of  the  globe, 

Let  one  full  drop  of  English  blood  be  spilled 

For  Liberty,  not  England :  men  would  lose 

Their  fancied  hatred  in  an  ardor  new, 

As  Minas  Channel  turns  to  Fundy's  tide. 

Hate  thee?     Hast  thou  forgot  red  Pei-ho's  stream, 

The  triple  horror  of  the  ambuscade, 

The  hell  of  battle,  the  foredoomed  assault, 

When  thou  didst  stand  the  champion  of  the  world, 

Though  the  awed  sea  for  once  deserted  thee? 

Who  then  sprang  to  thee,  breaking  from  the  bonds 

Of  old  observance,  with  a  human  cry, 


I96  HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 

Thirsting  to  share  thy  glorious  defeat 

As  men  are  wont  to  covet  victory? 

Hate  thee?     Hast  thou  forgot  Samoa's  reef, 

The  day  more  dark  than  any  starless  night, 

The  black  storm  buffeting  the  hopeless  ships, 

The  struggle  of  thy  sons,  and,  as  they  won, 

Gaming  the  refuge  of  the  furious  deep, 

The  immortal  cheers  that  shook  the  Trenton's  deck, 

As  Death  might  plead  with  Nature  for  the  brave? 

Stands  there  no  monument  upon  that  strand? 

Then  let  remembrance  build  a  beacon  high, 

That  long  its  warning  message  may  remind 

How  common  danger  stirs  the  brother  heart. 


WHY  turn  the  leaf  back  to  an  earlier  page  ? 

To-day,  not  moved  by  memory  or  fear, 

But  by  the  vision  of  a  nobler  time, 

Millions  cry  toward  thee  in  a  passion  of  peace. 

We  need  thee,  England,  not  in  armed  array 

To  stand  beside  us  in  the  empty  quarrels 

That  kings  pursue,  ere  War  itself  expire 

Like  an  o'er-armored  knight  in  desperate  lunge 

Beneath  the  weight  of  helmet  and  of  lance ; 

But  now,  in  conflict  with  an  inner  foe 

Who  shall  in  conquering  either  conquer  both. 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA  197 

For  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  fate : 

By  no  sword  save  her  own  falls  Liberty. 

A  wondrous  century  trembles  at  its  dawn, 

Conflicting  currents  telling  its  approach ; 

And  while  men  take  new  reckonings  from  the  peaks, 

Reweigh  the  jewel  and  retaste  the  wine, 

Be  ours  to  guard  against  the  impious  hands 

That,  like  rash  children,  tamper  with  that  blade. 

Thou,  too,  hast  seen  the  vision :  shall  it  be 

Only  a  dream,  caught  in  the  web  of  night, 

Lost  through  the  coarser  meshes  of  the  day? 

Or  like  the  beauty  of  the  prismic  bow, 

Which  the  sun's  ardor,  that  creates,  consumes? 

Oh,  may  it  be  the  thing  we  image  it!  — 

The  beckoning  spirit  of  our  common  race 

Floating  before  us  in  a  fringe  of  light 

With  Duty's  brow,  Love's  eyes,  the  smile  of  Peace ; 

Benignant  figure  of  compelling  mien, 

Star-crowned,  star-girdled,  and  o'erstrewn  with  stars, 

As  though  a  constellation  should  descend 

To  be  fit  courier  to  a  glorious  age. 

VI 

O  THOU  that  keepest  record  of  the  brave, 
Something  of  us  to  thee  is  lost,  more  worth 
Than  all  the  fabled  wealth  of  sibyls'  leaves. 


198  HANDS  ACROSS  SEA 

Not  with  dull  figures,  but  with  heroes'  deeds, 
Fill  up  those  empty  annals.     Teach  thy  youth 
To  know  not  North's  but  Byron's  Washington ; 
To  follow  H ale's  proud  step  as  tearfully 
As  we  pale  Andrews.     And  when  next  thy  sons 
Stand  in  Manhattan  gazing  at  the  swirl 
Of  eddying  trade  from  Trinity's  brown  porch, 
Astonished,  with  the  praise  that  half  defames, 
At  the  material  greatness  of  the  scene,— 
The  roar,  the  fret,  the  Babel-towers  of  trade,— 
Let  one  stretch  forth  a  hand  and  touch  the  stone 
That  covers  Lawrence,  saying,  "  To  this  height 
Our  English  blood  has  risen."     And  to  know 
The  sea  still  speaks  of  courage,  let  them  learn 
What  murmurs  it  of  Craven  in  one  bay, 
And  what  of  Gushing  shouts  another  shore. 
(Find  but  one  star,  how  soon  the  sky  is  full! 
One  hero  summons  hundreds  to  the  field : 
So  to  the  memory.)     Let  them  muse  on  Shaw, 
Whose  bones  the  deep  did  so  begrudge  the  land 
It  sent  its  boldest  waves  to  bring  them  back 
Unto  the  blue  domed  Pantheon  where  they  lie, 
The  while  his  soul  still  leads  in  martial  bronze ; 
Tell  them  of  sweet-dirged  Winthrop,  whom  to  name 
Is  to  be  braver,  as  one  grows  more  pure 
Breathing  the  thought  of  lover  or  of  saint ; 


HANDS  ACROSS  SEA  199 

Grim  Jackson,  Covenanter  of  the  South, 

And  her  well-christened  Sidney,  fallen  soon ; 

Kearny  and  Lyon.     Of  such  hearts  as  these 

Who  would  not  boast  were  braggart  of  all  else. 

Each  fought  for  Right— and  conquered  with  the  Best. 

Such  graves  are  all  the  ruins  that  we  have — 

Our  broken  arch  and  battlement— to  tell 

That  ours,  like  thine,  have  come  of  Arthur's  race. 

O  England,  wakened  from  thy  lull  of  song, 
Thy  scepter,  sword,  and  spindle,  fasces-like, 
Bound  with  fresh  laurel  as  thy  sign  of  strength, 
When  shalt  thou  win  us  with  a  theme  of  ours, 
Reclaiming  thus  thine  own,  till  men  shall  say : 
"  That  was  the  noblest  conquest  of  her  rule  "  ? 

NEW  YORK,  1897. 


Ill 

ITALIAN   RHAPSODY 

AND  OTHER   POEMS 


TO   WILLIAM   FAYAL   CLARKE 


POEMS   OF   ITALY 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


207 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


DEAR  Italy!     The  sound  of  thy  soft  name 

Soothes  me  with  balm  of  Memory  and  Hope. 
Mine,  for  the  moment,  height  and  sweep  and  slope 
That  once  were  mine.     Supreme  is  still  the  aim 
To  flee  the  cold  and  gray 
Of  our  December  day, 

And  rest  where  thy  clear  spirit  burns  with  unconsuming 
flame. 

ii 

There  are  who  deem  remembered  beauty  best, 

And  thine,  imagined,  fairer  is  than  sight 
Of  all  the  charms  of  other  realms  confessed, 
Thou  miracle  of  sea  and  land  and  light. 
Was  it  lest,  envying  thee, 
The  world  unhappy  be, 
Benignant  Heaven  gave  to  all  the  all-consoling  Night? 

*  Read  before  the  Mother  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Fra 
ternity,  William  and  Mary  College,  February  10,  1902. 


208  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

III 

Remembered  beauty  best?     Who  reason  so? 

Not  lovers,  yearning  to  the  same  dumb  star 
That  doth  disdain  their  passion — who,  afar, 
Seek  touch  and  voice  in  velvet  winds  and  low. 
No,  storied  Italy, 
Not  thine  that  heresy, 

Thou  who  thyself  art  fairer  far  than  Fancy  e'er  ca,n 
show. 

IV 

To  me  thou  art  an  ever-brooding  spell ; 

An  old  enchantment,  exorcised  of  wrong; 
A  beacon,  whereagainst  the  wings  of  Song 
Are  bruised  so,  they  cannot  fly  to  tell ; 
A  mistress,  at  whose  feet 
A  myriad  singers  meet, 

To  find  thy  beauty  the  despair  of  measures  full  and 
sweet. 


Of  old,  ere  caste  or  custom  froze  the  heart, 

What  tales  of  thine  did  Chaucer  re-indite, — 
Of  Constance,  and  Griselda,  and  the  plight 

Of  pure  Cecilia,— all  with  joyous  art! 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


209 


Oh,  to  have  journeyed  down 
To  Canterbury  town, 

And  known,  from  lips  that  touched  thy  robe,  that  triad 
of  renown! 


VI 

Fount  of  Romance  whereat  our  Shakspere  drank! 
Through  him  the  loves  of  all  are  linked  to  thee 
By  Romeo's  ardor,  Juliet's  constancy. 
He  sets  the  peasant  in  the  royal  rank ; 

Shows  under  mask  and  paint 
Kinship  of  knave  and  saint, 

And  plays  on  stolid  man  with  Prospero's  wand  and 
Ariel's  prank. 


VII 

Another  English  foster-child  hadst  thou 

When  Milton  from  the  breast  of  thy  delight 
Drew  inspiration.     With  a  vestal's  vow 

He  fed  the  flame  caught  from  thy  sacred  light. 
And  when  upon  him  lay 
The  long  eclipse  of  day, 
Thou  wert  the  memory-hoarded  treasure  of  his  doomed 

sight. 
u 


2io  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

VIII 

Name  me  a  poet  who  has  trod  thy  soil ; 

He  is  thy  lover,  ever  hastening  back, 
With  thee  forgetting  weariness  and  toil, 
The  nightly  sorrow  for  the  daily  lack. 
How  oft  our  lyric  race 
Looked  last  upon  thy  face! 

Oh,  would  that   I   were  worthy  thus  to   die  in  thine 
embrace ! 

IX 

Oh,  to  be  kin  to  Keats,  but  as  a  part 

Of  the  same  Roman  earth! — to  sleep,  unknown, 
Not  far  from  Shelley  of  the  virgin  heart, 

Where  not  one  tomb  is  envious  of  a  throne ; 
Where  the  proud  pyramid, 
To  brighter  glory  bid, 

Gives  Cestius  his  longed-for  fame,  marking  immortal 
Art. 


Or,  in  loved  Florence,  to  repose  beside 

Our  trinity  of  singers!      Fame  enough 
To  neighbor  lordly  Landor,  noble  Clough, 

And  her,  our  later  sibyl,  sorrow-eyed. 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY  2H 

Oh,  tell  me— not  their  arts, 
But  their  Italian  hearts 

Won  for  their  dust  that  narrow  oval,  than  the  world 
more  wide! 


XI 

So  might  I  lie  where  Browning  should  have  lain, 

My  "  Italy  "  for  all  the  world  to  read, 
Like  his  on  the  palazzo.     For  thy  pain 
In  losing  from  thy  rosary  that  bead, 
England  accords  thee  room 
Around  his  minster  tomb— 

A  province  conquered  of  thy  soul,  and  not  an  Arab 
\  slain ! 

XII 

Then  take  these  lines,  and  add  to  them  the  lay, 

All  inarticulate,  I  to  thee  indite  : 
The  sudden  longing  on  the  sunniest  day, 

The  happy  sighing  in  the  stormiest  night, 
The  tears  of  love  that  creep 
From  eyes  unwont  to  weep, 

Full  with  remembrance,  blind  with  joy,  and  with  devotion 
deep. 


212  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

XIII 

Absence  from  thee  is  such  as  men  endure 

Between  the  glad  betrothal  and  the  bride ; 
Or  like  the  years  that  Youth,  intense  and  sure, 
From  his  ambition  to  his  goal  must  bide. 
And  if  no  more  I  may 
Mount  to  Fiesole    .    .    . 

Oh,  then  were  Memory  meant  for  those  to  whom  is  Hope 
denied. 

XIV 

Show  me  a  lover  who  hath  drunk  by  night 

Thy  beauty-potion,  as  the  grape  the  dew : 
'T  were  little  wonder  he  were  poet  too, 
With  wine  of  song  in  unexpected  might, 
While  moonlit  cloister  calls 
With  plashy  fountain-falls, 

Or  darkened  Arno  moves  to  music  with  its  mirrored 
light. 

xv 

Who  can  withstand  thee?     What  distress  or  care 
But  yields  to  Naples,  or  that  long  day-dream 

We  know  as  Venice,  where  alone  more  fair 

Noon  is  than  night ;  where  every  lapping  stream 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY  213 

Wooes  with  a  soft  caress 
Our  new-world  weariness, 

And  every  ripple  smiles  with  joy  at  sight  of  scene  so 
rare. 


XVI 

The  mystery  of  thy  charm— ah,  who  hath  guessed? 
'T  was  ne'er  divined  by  day  or  shown  in  sleep ; 
Yet  sometimes  Music,  floating  from  her  steep, 
Holds  to  our  lips  a  chalice  brimmed  and  blest : 
Then  know  we  that  thou  art 
Of  the  Ideal  part— 

Of  Man's  one  thirst  that  is   not  quenched,  drink  he 
howe'er  so  deep. 


XVII 

Thou  human-hearted  land,  whose  revels  hold 
Man  in  communion  with  the  antique  days, 
And  summon  him  from  prosy  greed  to  ways 
Where  Youth  is  beckoning  to  the  Age  of  Gold ; 
How  thou  dost  hold  him  near 
And  whisper  in  his  ear 
Of  the  lost  Paradise  that  lies  beyond  the  alluring  haze ! 


214  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


XVIII 

In  tears  I  tossed  my  coin  from  Trevi's  edge, — 
A  coin  unsordid  as  a  bond  of  love, — 
And,  with  the  instinct  of  the  homing  dove, 
I  gave  to  Rome  my  rendezvous  and  pledge. 
And  when  imperious  Death 
Has  quenched  my  flame  of  breath, 
Oh,  let  me  join  the  faithful  shades  that  throng  that 
fount  above. 


THE  HOUR   OF  AWE 


215 


THE   HOUR   OF  AWE 

NOT  in  the  five-domed  wonder 
Where  the  soul  of  Venice  lies, 

When  the  sun  cleaves  the  gloom  asunder 
With  pathways  to  Paradise, 

And  the  organ's  melodious  thunder 
-  Summons  you  to  the  skies ; 

Not  in  that  rarest  hour, 

When  over  the  Arno's  rush 
The  City  of  Flowers'  flower 

Looms  in  the  sunset  flush, 
And  the  poignant  stroke  from  the  tower 

Pierces  the  spirit's  hush ; 

Not  Rome's  high  vault's  devising 

That  builded  the  heavens  in, 
When  you  know  not  the  anthem's  rising 

From  the  song  of  the  cherubin, 
Where,  sight  and  soul  surprising, 

Dusk  utters  your  dearest  sin : 


216  THE   HOUR   OF  AWE 

Not  these— nor  the  star-sown  splendor, 
Nor  the  deep  wood's  mystery, 

Nor  the  sullen  storm's  surrender 
To  the  ranks  of  the  leaping  sea, 

Nor  the  joy  of  the  springtime  tender 
On  Nature's  breast  to  be ; 

But  to  find  in  a  woman's  weeping 
The  look  you  have  longed  to  find, 

And  know  that  in  Time's  safe-keeping, 
Through  all  the  ages  blind, 

Was  Love,  like  a  winged  seed,  sleeping 
For  you  and  the  waiting  wind. 


TITIAN' 'S  TWO  LOVES,   IN  THE  BORGHESE    217 


TITIAN'S  TWO   LOVES,   IN  THE   BORGHESE 

ONE  forgets  not  the  first  dead  he  sorrowed  over ; 
One  forgets  not  the  first  kiss  of  the  first  lover. 
Not  the  dust  of  ages  could  remembrance  cover 
How  in  Titian's  golden  kingdom  first  I  strayed. 

Oh,  that  Roman  morning's  azure,  softly  sifting 
Through  the  gray,  the  while  the  rapt  eye  caught  the 

rifting 

Of  the  sun's  rich  fire  where  molten  mists  were  drifting, 
As  one  looks  upon  an  opal  gently  swayed. 

Ah!  but  in  the  palace  there  was  sun  more  golden! 
Art  for  once  to  Nature  was  no  more  beholden. 
Man  to  his  beloved  had  the  passion  olden 

Sung  in  color,  and  his  mighty  Love  grew  Fame. 

For  I  guessed,  while  hotly  others  were  contending 
Which  was  Love  Divine,  that  each  to  each  was  lending 
Supplemental  graces  for  a  perfect  blending— 
That  to  paint  one  twofold  woman  was  his  aim. 


2I8     TITIAN'S   TWO  LOVES,   IN  THE  BORGHESE 

One  without  the  other's  beauty  were  but  torso : 
Human  needs  divine,  ah,  yes,  and— maybe  more  so— 
By  divine  is  needed.     (Singing  down  the  Corso 
I,  elate,  enthralled,  went,  happy  just  to  be ! ) 

Yet  till  thee  at  last  I  knew— each  blended  feature 
Where  the  two  Loves  meet  in  rightly  balanced  nature — 
Never  had  I  known  a  tithe  of  Titian's  creature : 
God,  the  master  limner,  painted  both  in  thee. 


POEMS   ON    PUBLIC   EVENTS 


THE  LISTENING  SWORD  22i 


THE    LISTENING   SWORD 
(WRITTEN  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  SPANISH  WAR) 

STILL  on  the  hilt,  O  Patience,  keep  thy  hand! 

Though  in  the  sheath  the  uneasy  sword  may  leap 

That  waits,  and,  for  its  waiting,  cannot  sleep. 
For  it  doth  envy  Arthur's  knightly  brand 
And  each  fame-wreathed  weapon,  hero-manned, 

That  the  world's  freemen  in  remembrance  keep. 

Oh,  how  can  steel  be  deaf  when  nations  weep 
With  the  loud  sobbing  of  the  desolate  strand! 

Are  there  who  think,  "  The  hilt  hears,  not  the  blade, 
Snug  in  its  silence"?     Ah,  from  storms  upcaught 

Fall  not  too  soon  the  lightnings  of  the  Lord. 
Justice,  thou  God  in  Man,  when  thou  hast  weighed 
All  in  thy  balance,  show  us  what  we  ought. 

Then,  Patience,  not  till  then,  loose  the  appointed 
sword. 

March  30,  1898. 


222  DEWEY  AT  MANILA 


DEWEY   AT   MANILA 


'T  WAS  the  very  verge  of  May 
When  the  bold  Olympia  led 
Into  Boca  Grande  gray 

Dewey's  squadron,  dark  and  dread- 
Creeping  past  Corregidor, 
Guardian  of  Manila's  shore. 

Do  they  sleep  who  wait  the  fray? 

Is  the  moon  so  dazzling  bright 
That  our  cruisers'  battle-gray 

Melts  into  the  misty  light?   .    .   . 
Ah!  the  rockets  flash  and  soar! 
Wakes  at  last  Corregidor! 

All  too  late  their  screaming  shell 
Tears  the  silence  with  its  track. 

This  is  but  the  gate  of  Hell ; 
We  've  no  leisure  to  turn  back. 

Answer,  Boston — then  once  more 

Slumber  on,  Corregidor! 


DEWEY  AT  MANILA  223 

And  as,  like  a  slowing  tide, 

Onward  still  the  vessels  creep, 
Dewey,  watching,  falcon-eyed, 

Orders :    "  Let  the  gunners  sleep ; 
For  we  meet  a  foe  at  four 
Fiercer  than  Corregidor." 

Well  they  slept,  for  well  they  knew 
What  the  morrow  taught  us  all— 

He  was  wise  (as  well  as  true) 
Thus  upon  the  foe  to  fall. 

Long  shall  Spain  the  day  deplore 

Dewey  ran  Corregidor. 

ii 

MAY  is  dancing  into  light 

As  the  Spanish  Admiral, 
From  a  dream  of  phantom  fight, 

Wakens  at  his  sentry's  call. 
Shall  he  leave  Cavite's  lee, 
Hunt  the  Yankee  fleet  at  sea? 

O  Montojo,  to  thy  deck, 

That  to-day  shall  float  its  last! 
Quick !     To  quarters !     Yonder  speck 

Grows  a  hull  of  portent  vast. 


224  DEWEY  AT  MANILA 

Hither,  toward  Cavite's  lee 
Comes  the  Yankee  hunting  thee! 

Not  for  fear  of  hidden  mine 

Halts  our  doughty  Commodore. 

He,  of  old  heroic  line, 

Follows  Farragut  once  more, 

Hazards  all  on  victory, 

Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

If  he  loses,  all  is  gone ; 

He  will  win  because  he  must. 
And  the  shafts  of  yonder  dawn 

Are  not  quicker  than  his  thrust. 
Soon,  Montojo,  he  shall  be 
With  thee  in  Cavite's  lee. 

Now,  Manila,  to  the  fray! 

Show  the  hated  Yankee  host 
This  is  not  a  holiday — 

Spanish  blood  is  more  than  boast. 
Fleet  and  mine  and  battery, 
Crush  him  in  Cavite's  lee! 

Lo,  Hell's  geysers  at  our  fore 
Pierce  the  plotted  path — in  vain, 

Nerving  every  man  the  more 
With  the  memory  of  the  Maine! 


DEWEY  AT  MANILA  225 

Now  at  last  our  guns  are  free 
Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

"  Gridley,"  says  the  Commodore, 
"  You  may  fire  when  ready."     Then 

Long  and  loud,  like  lions'  roar 
When  a  rival  dares  the  den, 

Breaks  the  awful  cannonry 

Full  across  Cavite's  lee. 

Who  shall  tell  the  thrilling  tale 
Of  Our  Thunderbolt's  attack, 

Finding,  when  the  chart  should  fail, 
By  the  lead  his  dubious  track, 

Five  ships  following  faithfully 

Five  times  o'er  Cavite's  lee ; 

Of  our  gunners'  deadly  aim ; 

Of  the  gallant  foe  and  brave 
Who,  unconquered,  faced  with  flame, 

Seek  the  mercy  of  the  wave— 
Choosing  honor  in  the  sea 
Underneath  Cavite's  lee! 

Let  the  meed  the  victors  gain 
Be  the  measure  of  their  task. 

Less  of  flinching,  stouter  strain, 
Fiercer  combat— who  could  ask  ? 

15 


226  DEWEY  AT  MANILA 

And  "surrender"  — 't  was  a  word 
That  Cavite  ne'er  had  heard. 

Noon— the  woeful  work  is  done! 

Not  a  Spanish  ship  remains ; 
But,  of  their  eleven,  none 

Ever  was  so  truly  Spain's! 
Which  is  prouder,  they  or  we, 
Thinking  of  Cavite's  lee? 

ENVOY 

BUT  remember,  when  we  Ve  ceased 
Giving  praise  and  reckoning  odds, 

Man  shares  courage  with  the  beast, 
Wisdom  cometh  from  the  gods. 

Who  would  win,  on  land  or  wave, 

Must  be  wise  as  well  as  brave. 

May  10,  1898. 


THE    WELCOME   OF  OUR    TEARS 


227 


THE    WELCOME    OF    OUR   TEARS 

(ON THE  RETURN  OF  A  REGIMENT  FROM  THE  SPANISH  WAR) 

Now  is  the  time  to  be  glad! 
\  Now  is  the  time  to  be  gay! 

With  welcome  the  city  is  mad, 

And  the  flags  and  the  wind  are  at  play. 
There,  down  the  street  full  of  faces 

(Like  a  furrow  that  Joy  has  plowed), 
The  heart  and  the  eye  run  races 

Which  first  shall  greet  the  proud. 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  come ! 

I  can  tell  by  the  cheer  and  the  shout 
That  keep  just  ahead  of  the  drum 

Where  the  little  flags  break  out. 
\  I  can  tell  by  the  blood's  quick  leaping 

My  sluggish  veins  along, 
I  can  tell  by  my  footstep  keeping 

The  rhythm  of  battle-song. 

\  Against  them  the  sword  of  the  Cid 

In  the  hand  of  a  haughty  foe ; 

(  Against  them  the  jungle  that  hid 

Iron-fanged  serpents  a-row ; 


228  THE    WELCOME   OF  OUR    TEARS 

Against  them  the  storm  and  the  baking 
Of  sun  on  the  rain-drenched  skin ; 

Against  them  the  fever's  aching, 
Against  them  our  civic  sin. 

Here  they  are!  father  and  lad. 

Now  let  us  cheer  them— but  stay! 
Too  haggard  that  face  to  be  glad, 

Too  weary  those  feet  to  be  gay. 
God!  are  these  phantoms  the  handsome 

Young  knights  that  went,  eager  to  save? 
O  Freedom,  is  this  then  the  ransom 

We  give  for  the  starved  and  the  slave? 

They  whom  we  welcome  to-day— 

Why  do  the  shout  and  the  cheer 
Lining  each  step  of  their  way 

Seem  like  a  dirge  and  a  tear? 
Is  it  that  some  may  be  wearing 

Laurels  of  others?     Ay,  see! 
Count  the  thin  ranks  of  the  daring : 

Each  wears  his  laurels  for  three! 

And  we  thought  it  a  time  to  be  glad! 
And  we  thought  it  a  time  to  be  gay! 

NEW  YORK,  September  22,  1898. 


AN  ENGLISH  MOTHER  229 


AN   ENGLISH    MOTHER 

EVERY  week  of  every  season  out  of  English  ports  go 

forth, 
White  of  sail  or  white  of  trail,  East,  or  West,  or  South, 

or  North, 

Scattering  like  a  flight  of  pigeons,  half  a  hundred  home 
sick  ships, 
Bearing  half  a  thousand  striplings— each  with  kisses  on 

his  lips 
Of  some  silent  mother,  fearful  lest  she  show  herself  too 

fond, 

Giving  him  to  bush  or  desert  as  one  pays  a  sacred  bond. 
—Tell   us,  you  who   hide  your   heartbreak,  Which   is 

sadder,  when  all  's  done, 
To  repine,  an  English  mother,  or  to  roam,  an  English 

son? 

You  who  shared  your  babe's  first  sorrow  when  his  cheek 
no  longer  pressed 

On  the  perfect,  snow-and-roseleaf  beauty  of  your  mother- 
breast, 


230  AN  ENGLISH  MOTHER 

In  the  rigor  of  his  nurture  was  your  woman's  mercy  mute, 
Knowing  he  was  doomed  to  exile  with  the  savage  and 

the  brute? 
Did  you  school  yourself  to  absence,  all  his  adolescent 

years, 
That,  though  you  be  torn  with  parting,  he  should  never 

see  the  tears? 
Now  his  ship  has  left  the  offing  for  the  many-mouthed 

sea, 
This  your  guerdon,  empty  heart,  by  empty  bed  to  bend 

the  knee! 


And  if  he  be  but  the  latest  thus  to  leave  your  dwindling 
board, 

Is  a  sorrow  less  for  being  added  to  a  sorrow's  hoard? 

Is  the  mother-pain  the  duller  that  to-day  his  brothers 
stand, 

Facing  ambuscades  of  Congo  or  alarms  of  Zululand? 

Toil,  where  blizzards  drift  the  snow  like  smoke  across 
the  plains  of  death? 

Faint,  where  tropic  fens  at  morning  steam  with  fever- 
laden  breath? 

Die,  that  in  some  distant  river's  veins  the  English  blood 
may  run— 

Mississippi,  Yangtze,  Ganges,  Nile,  Mackenzie,  Amazon? 


AN  ENGLISH  MOTHER  231 

Ah!  you  still  must  wait  and  suffer  in  a  solitude  untold 
While  your  sisters  of  the  nations  call  you  passive,  call 

you  cold— 
Still  must  scan  the  news  of  sailings,  breathless  search 

the  slow  gazette, 
Find  the  dreaded  name    .    .    .    and,  later,  get  his  blithe 

farewell!      And  yet— 
Shall  the  lonely  at  the  hearthstone  shame  the  legions 

who  have  died 
Grudging  not  the  price  their  country  pays  for  progress 

and  for  pride? 
—  Nay;   but,  England,  do  not  ask  us  thus  to  emulate 

your  scars 
Until  women's  tears  are  reckoned  in  the  budgets  of  your 

wars. 

1899. 


232  "  THE    WHITE  MAWS  BURDEN^ 


THE   WHITE    MAN'S    BURDEN 

WHAT  is  the  White  Man's  burden? 

Does  destiny  demand 
His  back  be  laden  higher 

By  every  dusky  hand? 
Am  I  my  brother's  keeper — 

Or  keeper  of  his  land? 

What  is  the  White  Man's  burden? 

Is  it  the  mounting  flood 
Of  treasure,  vain  to  vanquish 

The  tides  of  patriot  blood, 
While  our  supremest  jewel 

Is  trampled  in  the  mud? 

What  is  the  White  Man's  burden 
That  weighs  upon  his  sleep? 

To  hear  the  hundreds  dying? 
To  see  the  thousands  weep? 

Oh,  wanton  war  that  haunts  him! 
Oh,  seed  that  he  must  reap! 


"  THE    WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN  " 

What  is  the  White  Man's  burden— 

The  burden  of  his  song 
That  once  was  "  Peace  and  Justice ; 

The  Weak  beside  the  Strong"? 
He  falters  in  the  singing 

At  memory  of  the  wrong. 

What  though  our  vaunt  of  Freedom 
Must  evermore  be  mute, 

And  the  trading  of  men's  vices 
Drag  both  below  the  brute? 

Go  bribe  new  ships  to  bring  it— 
The  White  Man's  burden— loot! 


233 


234      ON  READING   OF  ATROCITIES  IN  WAR 


ON    READING    OF   ATROCITIES   IN    WAR 

MILD  is  the  air  of  April, 

Gentle  the  sky  above, 
And  the  budding  and  the  mating 

Call  for  a  song  of  love ; 
But  the  season  on  my  singing 

Has  lost  its  olden  spell 
Because  of  a  shame  and  sorrow 

Men  close  their  eyes  to  tell. 

I  see  but  the  tears  of  women 

In  the  rain  of  the  springtime  flood ; 
I  cannot  brook  the  flowers — 

They  only  smell  of  blood. 
Sad  is  the  playground  frolic — 

Its  joy  and  laughter  melt 
In  the  moan  of  children  sobbing 

From  jungle  and  from  veldt. 

O  ye  in  the  halls  of  council, 

You  may  conquer  the  distant  foe, 

But  still  before  a  higher  court 
Your  needless  wars  must  go. 


ON  READING    OF  ATROCITIES  IN   WAR     235 

Too  much  you  ask  of  silence ; 

Too  fierce  the  iron  heel. 
Because  one  statesman  blundered 

Must  every  heart  be  steel? 

O  Britain!      O  Columbia! 

Too  much  of  sodden  strife. 
Back  to  the  banished  gospel— 

The  sacredness  of  life! 
Else  shall  our  ties  of  language 

And  law  and  race  and  fame 
Be  naught  to  the  bond  that  binds  us 

In  one  eternal  shame. 

April  8,  1902. 


236  THE  KEEPER   OF   THE  SWORD 

THE   KEEPER    OF   THE    SWORD* 
(APROPOS  OF  THE  DREYFUS  TRIAL  AT  RENNES) 

HAIL  to  that  Breton  law  by  which  a  lord, 

Fate-hounded,— he  whose  sires  had  sought  the  Grail,— 
Left  with  the  State  his  sword,  as  Honor's  bail, 
While  on  a  western  isle  he  won  reward 

Of  his  brave  patience,  in  a  golden  hoard ;  — 
Speeding  from  exile  (the  wide  sea  a  jail 
If  but  the  wrong  wind  filled  his  yearning  sail! ) 
To  claim  once  more  his  heritage  and  sword. 

France,  dost  thou  heed  the  omen?  'T  was  at  Rennes!  — 
Where  one  who  loved  thee,  cruel,— loved  thee,  blind,— 
Now  fronts  thee  proudly  with  the  old  demand. 

Oh!    ...    thou    hast    broke    it!    ...    Haste!     the 

fragments  find, 

And  in  the  forge  of  Justice  weld  again 
That  undishonored  blade  for  his  forgiving  hand. 

August  7,  1899. 

*  Readers  of  the  "Sentimental  Journey"  will  recall  Sterne's 
account  of  the  custom  here  referred  to,  as  narrated  in  the  chapter 
entitled  "The  Sword:  Rennes." 


REMEMBER    WARINGf 


237 


REMEMBER   WARING! 
(THE  CITY  AGAINST  TAMMANY,  1901) 

AGAIN  the  bugle-blow 
To  meet  the  common  foe 

Summons  the  daring. 
Can  ye  not  hear  the  call 
Echo  from  every  wall— 

"Remember  Waring"? 

He  stormed  the  fetid  street 
Where  Death  with  rapid  feet 

Strode  fierce  and  glaring. 
Shall  we  forget,  alone, 
When  every  grateful  stone 

Remembers  Waring? 

He,  to  your  service  true ; 
He,  in  his  love  of  you 

Himself  not  sparing ; 
Whom  gold  could  not  allure ; 
Guardian  of  rich  and  poor— 

Our  soldier  Waring! 


238  REMEMBER    WARING! 

He  found  a  wretched  throng — 
Rescued  from  ancient  wrong — 

New  burdens  bearing ; 
And  babes  that  he  did  save 
Cry  from  a  later  grave : 

"  Remember  Waring." 

He  dared  a  tropic  hell 
Of  fever— till  he  fell, 

And  we,  despairing, 
Knew  that  for  us  he  died, 
And  in  our  grieving  cried : 

"Remember  Waring!" 

Shall  we  be  less  than  they 
Who  make  the  poor  their  prey, 

No  least  one  sparing? 
They  praise  him,  though  they  fill 
Each  tainted  purse ;  they  still 

Remember  Waring. 

How  shall  our  deed  atone 
That  nowhere  bronze  or  stone 

His  name  is  bearing? 
His  ashes  in  their  urn 
With  his  old  ardor  burn, 

And  plead,  for  Waring : 


REMEMBER    WARING!  239 

"  Oh,  if  the  work  I  wrought 
Be  to  your  memory  aught, 

Now  Greed  is  tearing 
The  crown  from  Freedom's  brow, 
Strike  harder  that  you  now 

Remember  Waring." 

Then,  ere  the  heart  grow  cold, 
Let  us  on  altars  old 

New  vows  be  swearing : 
"  Perish  the  people's  foe! 
Scorn  for  his  tool !  "  and  so 

Remember  Waring. 


POEMS   OF    HEART   AND    SOUL 


TO  ONE  BORN  ON  THE  LAST  OF  NOVEMBER  243 


TO   ONE   BORN    ON   THE   LAST   DAY   OF 
NOVEMBER 

UPON  this  day,  divinely  blest, 

When  thou  wert  born,  as  to  their  guest, 

Three  seasons  gave  thee  of  their  best. 

March  brought  the  graceful  stir  of  Spring ; 

April,  a  tender  song  to  sing ; 

May,  the  most  winsome  blossoming ; 

June  gave  sweet  breath,  and  that  pale  flush 
July  has  deepened  in  thy  blush. 
Repose  came  with  the  August  hush. 

September  blent  thy  glowing  hair 
With  glowing  temple,  as  the  air 
Of  twilight  blendeth  dark  and  fair. 

October's  dower  was  so  rife 
With  treasure,  futile  further  strife, 
And  so  November  gave  thee— life. 


244   TO  ONE  BORN  ON  THE  LAST  OF  NOVEMBER 

So  keen  and  icy  was  the  smart 
Of  Winter  (since  he  had  no  part 
In  fashioning  thy  radiant  heart), 

He  bade  December  so  to  plead 
For  thee,  petitioning  his  need, 
That  the  relenting  Fates  took  heed ; 

And  though  November's  thou  must  be, 
Yet  nearest  Winter  (they  decree) 
Is  set  thy  gracious  ministry. 


MUSIC  AND  LOVE  345 


MUSIC   AND    LOVE 

WHO  longs  for  music  merely  longs  for  Love. 
For  Love  is  music,  and  no  minstrel  needs 
Save  his  own  sigh  to  breathe  upon  the  reeds 
From  heart  too  full,  and— like  the  adoring  dove 

That  cooes  all  day  the  darling  nest  above, 
Content  if  hour  to  happy  hour  succeeds — 
Nor  morning's  song,  nor  noon's  rich  silence,  heeds, 
Nor  the  old  mysteries  evening  whispers  of. 

But  when  the  voice  is  echoless,  the  hand 

Long  empty,  then,  O  wedded  harp  and  flute, 
Remind  us  Love  's  eternal,  not  Time's  toy. 

O  viol,  at  whose  brink  of  pain  we  stand, 
Love  in  thy  muted  anguish  is  not  mute, 
But  thrills  with  memory's  new-remembered  joy. 


246  AT  A    CONCERT 


AT  A  CONCERT 

Music  inspires  me  but  to  think  of  thee, 

For  thou  art  of  the  music  of  the  world— 

A  strain  of  that  imperishable  voice 

That  speaks  in  beauty,  harmony,  and  love. 

When  Mozart  wakes  the  gladness  of  my  youth 

I  see  perpetual  childhood  in  thy  face. 

When  Chopin,  hand  in  hand  with  Love,  leads  on 

Through  meadowy  pleasures  to  the  brink  of  pain, 

How  near,  how  tender  is  thy  beating  heart! 

And  oh,  when  from  the  skies  Beethoven  sounds 

His  sure,  triumphant  song,  how  it  vibrates 

Deep  memories  of  thy  reposeful  soul! 


AFTER    THE  SONG  247 

AFTER   THE   SONG 
(TO  E.  j.  w.) 

IF  to  your  wondrous  voice  and  art 
I  give  not  plaudits  with  the  throng, 

'T  is  lest  I  spill  my  brimming  heart 
And  in  the  singer  lose  the  song. 

Too  soon  the  sweetest  cadence  dies ; 

The  vanished  vision  leaves  but  this : 
The  burden  of  the  things  we  prize, 

The  pathos  of  the  things  we  miss. 

Oh,  for  a  silence  that  should  hold 
These  echoes  of  delicious  sound 

As  depths  of  a  still  lake  enfold 

Brooks  that  fall  fainter  bound  by  bound. 

Yours  is  the  art  of  Orphic  power 

To  charm  the  soul  from  out  its  hell — 

Deserts  of  absence  to  reflower 
With  rose  instead  of  asphodel. 

Like  dew  on  gossamer,  a  tear 
Lies  on  the  fabric  of  our  dream : 

Despairing  hope!  that  we  who  hear 
Might  be  as  noble  as  you  seem. 


SONG  FOR   YOUTH 


SONG   FOR   YOUTH 

O  FLOWER-LIKE  years  of  youth, 

Delay,  delay! 

Old  Time  shall  soon,  forsooth, 
December  make  of  May. 

Bid  him  away  I 

O  flower-like  years  of  youth, 

Oh,  stay;  oh,  stay! 
Nor  covet  Age  uncouth, 
When  all  is  warm  and  gay 
For  you  to-day. 

O  flower-like  years  of  youth, 

Delay,  delay! 

Let  others  seek  for  Truth  ; 
Yours  is  the  time  for  play 

And  dance  of  fay. 

O  flower-like  years  of  youth, 

Oh,  stay;  oh,  stay! 
Time  with  remorseless  tooth 
Shall  gnaw  your  bloom  away ; 

Then  say  him  nay. 


SONG  FOR    YOUTH  349 

O  flower-like  years  of  youth, 

Delay,  delay! 

Age  knows  for  you  no  ruth ; 
Then,  till  your  latest  day, 

Hold  him  at  bay. 


250  SONG   OF  REMEMBRANCE 


SONG   OF   REMEMBRANCE 

BIRD  of  the  swaying  bough 
(Like  the  voice  of  a  lover's  vow), 
You  shall  hold  for  me  ever,  as  now, 
The  thrill  of  your  morning  song. 

Bubble  of  April  light 
(Like  the  glance  of  a  lover's  sight), 
You  shall  into  my  winter  night 
The  soul  of  the  noon  prolong. 

Cloud  of  the  wind-swept  land 
(Like  the  touch  of  a  lover's  hand), 
In  the  memory  you  shall  stand 

Though  you  flee  from  the  flaming  sky. 

Rose  of  the  scattered  bower 
(Like  Love's  most  fragrant  hour), 
When  shall  you  lose  your  power? 
When  I  no  more  am  I. 


S  TAX- SONG 


STAR-SONG 

WHEN  sunset  flows  into  golden  glows, 
And  the  breath  of  the  night  is  new, 

Love,  find  afar  yon  yearning  star — 
That  is  my  thought  of  you. 

And  when  your  eye  doth  scan  the  sky 

Your  lonely  lattice  through, 
Choose  any  one,  from  sun  to  sun — 

That  is  my  thought  of  you. 

And  when  you  wake  at  the  morning's  break 

To  rival  rose  and  dew, 
The  star  that  stays  in  the  leaping  rays — 

That  is  my  thought  of  you. 


252  SONG  FOR  A    WEDDING-DAY 


SONG   FOR   A  WEDDING-DAY 

POPLAR,  straight  and  fair  and  tall : 
Graceful  though  your  sway, 

Well  for  your  soft  rise  and  fall 
That  Helen  is  away. 

Bud,  about  whose  fragrant  side 

All  the  pleasures  play : 
Rose,  remember  in  your  pride 

That  Helen  is  away. 

Heart,  whose  hope  she  never  knew 
Though  other  hearts  be  gay, 

None  need  ever  tell  to  you 
That  Helen  is  away. 


WITH  A    TOAST  TO    THE  BRIDE  253 


WITH   A   TOAST   TO    THE   BRIDE 

THEY  met,  they  looked,  they  sighed,  they  loved ; 

Straight  each  the  other  chose. 
(Why  wait  till  slow-paced  years  have  proved 

What  each  by  instinct  knows?) 
Whate'er  mistake  we  mortals  make, 

Sure,  none  is  made  above. 
Give  prudence  to  the  prudes ;  there  is 

No  substitute  for  love. 

Howe'er  the  worldly-wise  may  mate, 

Apart  from  soul  or  sense, 
And  as  undying  passion  rate 

Their  tepid  preference, 
Love  is  the  wing  that  's  sure  to  bring 

Back  to  the  ark  the  dove. 
What  all  their  wisdom?     Ah,  it  is 

No  substitute  for  love. 

And  those  who  by  ambition  blind 

Would  with  a  title  wed, 
That,  when  they  are  not  sore  maligned, 

They  may  be  envied, 


254  WITH  A    TOAST   TO    THE  BRIDE 

Heaven  sends  them  pride  wherewith  to  hide 

The  loss  they  know  not  of— 
To  find— too  late,  alas!  —there  is 

No  substitute  for  love. 

Then  here  's  success  to  youth  and  maid 

Who  hold  in  hopeful  hands 
And  weave  together,  unafraid, 

Life's  old  mysterious  strands. 
"  Love  is  enough  "—that  is  the  stuff 

Fortune  is  fashioned  of. 
To  face  the  fickle  world,  there  's  naught 

To  substitute  for  love. 


TO  JUNE 


I  TO  JUNE 

MONTH  of  the  perfect  love, 
|  Month  of  the  perfect  leaf,— 

The  mellow-mourning  dove 

Thine  only  note  of  grief,— 
Oh,  let  me  hide  within  thy  shade  a  sorrow  past  relief! 

Thou,  unto  whose  employ 

All  Nature's  arts  belong — 
Fragrance  and  warmth  and  joy : 

Admit  me  to  thy  throng. 

Thou  canst  not  dull  the  pang,  but  oh!  tune  every  chord 
to  song! 


256  A  LOVEJfS  ANSWER 


A   LOVER'S  ANSWER 

THOU  seekest,  "Where  is  heaven?"     Oh,  Love,  't  is 
where 

Thou  shalt  be,  though  thou  be  in  hell. 

"And  what  is  hell?  "     Oh,  darling,  't  were  to  dwell 
In  highest  heaven  and  thou  not  there. 


THE   GUEST 


THE    GUEST 

I  HAVE  a  guest,  but  cannot  tell 

If  he  were  bid  or  sent, 
Yet  welcome,  as  by  desert  well 

The  Arab  to  the  tent. 
How  long  will  he  consent  to  stay 
To  give  a  reason  for  the  day? 

And  if  he  go,  can  I  unlearn 

His  songs  of  joy  and  pain  ? 
His  torch,  that  was  so  quick  to  burn, 

How  can  I  quench  again — 
That  torch  that  lights  with  fadeless  flame 
One  face,  one  memory,  one  name! 


17 


TO   ONE    WHO   COMPLAINED 


TO   ONE   WHO    COMPLAINED    OF  A 
LOVER'S   PERSISTENCE 

You  hear  but  the  moans  that  break 
On  the  rocks  at  your  feet — but  hark! 
Perchance  through  the  dreary  dark 

A  cry  from  a  drifting  wreck! 


INTERPRETERS 


INTERPRETERS 

ONE  conned  my  simple  lines  with  cynic  art, 

Then  smiled,  as  though  he  found  a  friend  in  me, 

And  read :  "  If  Love  alone  possess  your  heart, 
Then  can  you  never  more  unhappy  be." 

Another,  feeling  still  Love's  bitter  dart. 

Smiled  through  her  joyful  tears  triumphantly, 
And  read :  "  If  Love  alone  possess  your  heart, 

Then  can  you  nevermore  unhappy  be." 


26o  THE    TRYST 


THE   TRYST 

THE  panting  north  wind  staggers 

A-clutch  with  the  sullen  tide, 
And  the  blast  with  a  hundred  daggers 

Is  piercing  the  rower's  side. 
They  say  he  was  mad  to  venture, 

They  moan  on  the  icy  shore ; 
But  pleading,  or  fear,  or  censure 

Shall  carry  him  back  no  more. 

For  what  is  the  cold  wave's  seething, 

Or  the  rush  of  the  white-speared  storm, 
To  the  thought  of  the  sweet  South,  breathing 

From  lips  that  are  pure  and  warm ; 
Or  the  thrust  of  the  angry  billow 

To  the  rise  of  her  tranquil  breast 
That  to-night  shall  be  his  pillow 

Where,  welcome,  he  may  rest? 


"LOVE    THE   CONQUEROR   CAME    TO  ME"    26i 


"LOVE  THE  CONQUEROR  CAME  TO  ME" 


LOVE  the  Conqueror  came  to  me,— 
He  whom  I  did  long  deride,— 
Gave  humility  for  pride, 
April  voicing 
My  rejoicing. 

I— who  fancied  I  was  free— 
Glad  to  be  with  garlands  tied! 


ii 


Love  the  Awakener  came  to  me ; 
Called  my  sleeping  soul  to  strife, 
Offered  gift  of  fuller  life 
(Wish,  the  measure 
Of  my  pleasure) ; 
And  the  bud  that  knew  no  bee 
Burst,  a  rose  with  beauty  rife. 


262    "LOVE   THE   CONQUEROR   CAME   TO 

III 

Love  the  Tester  came  to  me ; 
For  the  paean  gave  the  dirge, 
For  caresses  gave  the  scourge 
(Ay,  though  Fortune 
Did  importune), 
Till  my  breathing  seemed  to  be 
Sorrow's  tide  at  ebb  and  surge. 

IV 

Love  the  Ennobler  came  to  me, 
With  the  cross  as  his  device, 
Saying,  "  Shrink  not  from  the  price 
(Pain  the  burden, 
Peace  the  guerdon) ; 
Sorrow  bravely  borne  shall  be 
Doubly  sweet  as  sacrifice." 

v 

Love  the  Revealer  comes  to  me 
On  this  battled  height,  and  shows 
Yonder  river  of  repose : 
"  Not  by  creeping, 
But  by  leaping, 
Learns  the  rill  the  harmony 
That  within  the  river  flows." 


THE  STRONGER  SUMMONS  263 


THE    STRONGER    SUMMONS* 

i 
How  May  doth  call  us  with  her  sweetest  voice, 

Fragrant  with  blossoms  on  this  moonlit  night! 
"  Take  of  my  wine,  and  in  new  birth  rejoice ; 

Leave  care  and  toil,  the  sordid  city's  plight. 
Oh,  dying  Man,  come  to  the  source  of  Life, 
And  hush  in  Nature  all  the  sounds  of  strife." 

ii 

Wondrous  the  vision,  and  we  fain  would  go 
But  that  a  nobler  pleasure  calls  us  here. 

Charm,  Nature,  as  thou  wilt,  thou  canst  not  throw 
A  spell  to  win  us  like  the  smile  and  tear. 

In  what  Love,  Friendship,  Duty,  Service  can, 

We  know  God's  greatest  miracle  is  Man. 

*  Written  in  honor  of  the  distinguished  physician  Dr.  Abraham 
Jacobi,  and  read  at  the  banquet  given  to  him  in  New  York  city, 
May  5,  1900,  to  celebrate  the  seventieth  anniversary  of  his  birth, 
and  included  with  the  Festschrift  then  presented  to  him  by  mem- 
bers  of  the  medical  profession. 


264  THE  FLOWER   OF  FAME 


THE    FLOWER    OF   FAME 

HE  sought  it  before  the  billow  of  spring  on  the  meadow 

was  seen, 
When  only  the  flush  of  the  willow  was  tracing  the  river 

with  green ; 
He  scanned  to   the   edge   of  the   fraying   snows    that 

dappled  the  mountain-slope, 
And  ever  too  late  the  March  sun  rose :   for  he  searched 

the  world  with  hope. 

I  saw  him  at  noon  of  the  summer  day,  and  that  was  the 

favorite  hour 
To  one  who  had  hunted  from  March  to  May,  and  never 

had  found  the  flower; 
For  the  light  was  full,  as  though  the  sun  were  aiding 

his  eager  quest, 
And  there  were  no  warning  shadows  to  run  o'er  his 

path  from  east  or  west. 

And  still  in  September's  purple  and  gold  he  was  hunting 

the  grudging  ground, 
But  not  with  the  steady  eye  of  old  or  the  springtime's 

joyous  bound ; 


THE  FLOWER   OF  FAME  265 

If  he  stopped  in  his  feverish  roaming,  't  was  to  question 

the  darkling  air ; 
Too  early  came  the  gloaming:  he  was  searching  with 

despair. 

And  while,  for  a  chance  of  the  rarest,  he  wanders  in 

storm  or  heat, 
He  is  blind  to  the  charm  of  the  fairest ;  he  is  crushing 

beneath  his  feet 

The  Flower  of  Every  Valley,  the  Flower  of  All  the  Year, 
Deep  in  whose  broken  blossom  the  dew  lies  like  a  tear. 


266          THE  DREAD  BEFORE   GREAT  JOY 


THE    DREAD    BEFORE    GREAT  JOY 


WITHIN,  what  gracious  store 
Of  pleasures  throng  : 

Rest,  beauty,  firelit  lore, 
Love-breathing  song. 

Why  at  the  open  door 
Wait  you  so  long? 


ii 


Oh,  why  delay  to  touch 
The  splendid  flower? 

Why  tremble  ere  we  clutch 
The  perfect  hour? 

Is  it  too  near,  too  much, 
The  certain  dower? 


THE  DREAD  BEFORE   GREAT  JOY  267 

III 

Beneath  the  bride's  attire 

Her  heart  stands  still- 
Half-way  from  porch  to  choir— 

For  joy,  not  ill 
(We  shiver  before  fire 

As  well  as  chill). 


IV 

Home-bound,  beyond  the  bar 

I  heard  again, 
An  exile  from  afar, 

The  tide's  refrain : 
What  did  the  moment  mar? 

Ah !  't  was  not  pain. 


Well  may  the  victor  shrink 

Aghast  at  Fame 
To  hear,  on  Fortune's  brink, 

His  land's  acclaim, 
That  with  its  great  doth  link 

His  own  strange  name. 


268  THE  DREAD  BEFORE   GREAT  JOY 


VI 

We  raise  the  precious  bowl- 
To  sip  and  sigh  : 

The  starving  takes  but  dole 
Lest  he  may  die ; 

Must,  then,  the  famished  soul 
Its  feast  put  by  ? 

VII 

What  if  our  mortal  fear 

Were  but  the  dread 
Before  great  joy!      How  near 

Were  the  loved  dead! 
Then  were  the  grave  more  dear 

Than  bridal  bed. 


REINCARNATION  269 


REINCARNATION 

"  Another  world!  Another  life! "  we  cry, 

And  for  new  chances  toward  far  regions  reach ; 

Yet  squander  teeming  treasure  as  we  sigh, 
While  every  day  a  new  life  waits  for  each. 


2  yo  PREMONITIONS 


PREMONITIONS 

THERE  's  a  shadow  on  the  grass 
That  was  never  there  before ; 
And  the  ripples  as  they  pass 
Whisper  of  an  unseen  oar ; 
And  the  song  we  knew  by  rote 
Seems  to  falter  in  the  throat, 

And   a  footfall,  scarcely  noted,  lingers  near  the  open 
door. 

Omens  that  were  once  but  jest 
Now  are  messengers  of  fate ; 
And  the  blessing  held  the  best 

Cometh  not  or  comes  too  late. 
Yet,  whatever  life  may  lack, 
Not  a  blown  leaf  beckons  back, 

"Forward!"  is  the  summons.     "Forward!    where  the 
new  horizons  wait." 


IV 

MOMENTS  OF  ITALY,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 


TO  GRACE  DENIO  LITCHFIELD 


TO   ONE    WHO  NEVER   GOT  TO  ROME 


275 


TO  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME 
(EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN) 

[ON  his  long-deferred  and  only  trip  to  Italy  Stedman  entered  the 
country  from  the  north  for  what  proved  to  be  a  very  brief  sojourn, 
for  soon  after  reaching  Venice  he  was  suddenly  obliged  to  return 
to  America.  It  remained  his  cherished  desire  to  see  the  Eternal 
City,  and  the  Roman  Committee  of  the  Keats-Shelley  Memorial 
long  hoped  that  he  might  be  present  at  the  proposed  dedication 
of  the  Keats  House,  contemplated  for  the  23d  of  February,  1908. 
He  died  five  weeks  before  that  day,  when  the  lines  which  follow 
were  written.  As  the  active  and  devoted  Chairman  of  the  Amer 
ican  Committee  he  took  a  leading  part  in  this  project.  Probably 
his  last  words  written  for  publication  on  a  literary  topic  were  in 
praise  of  the  two  poets,  to  which  he  added  a  transcription  from 
"Ariel,"  his  ode  on  Shelley.] 

You  who  were  once  bereft  of  Rome 
With  but  the  Apennines  between, 

And  went  no  more  beyond  the  foam, 

But  loved  your  Italy  at  home 
As  others  loved  her  seen  : 

You  knew  each  old  imperial  shaft 
With  sculpture  laureled  to  the  blue ; 

Where  martyr  bled  and  tyrant  laughed ; 

Where  Horace  his  Falernian  quaffed, 
And  where  the  vintage  grew. 


276      TO   ONE    WHO  NEVER   GOT   TO  ROME 

The  Forum's  half-unopened  book 

You  would  have  pondered  well  and  long ; 
And  loved  St.  Peter's  misty  look, 
With  vesper  chantings  in  some  nook 
Of  far-receding  song. 


Oft  had  you  caught  the  silver  gleams 
Of  Roman  fountains.     To  your  art 
They  add  no  music.     Trevi  teems 
With  not  more  free  or  bounteous  streams 
Than  did  your  generous  heart. 


I  hoped  that  this  Muse-hallowed  day 

Might  find  your  yearning  dream  come  true 

That  you  might  see  the  moonlight  play 

On  ilex  and  on  palace  gray 
As  't  were  alone  for  you ; — 


That  your  white  age  might  disappear 
Within  the  whiteness  of  the  night, 
While  the  late  strollers,  lending  ear 
To  your  young  joy,  would  halt  and  cheer 
At  such  a  happy  wight ;  — 


TO   ONE    WHO  NEVER   GOT  TO  ROME      277 

That  you, — whose  toil  was  never  done, — 

Physicianed  by  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Might,  like  a  beggar  in  the  sun, 
Watch  idly  the  green  lizard  run 

From  out  his  stony  nest ;  — 


That  you,  from  that  high  parapet 

That  crowns  the  graceful  Spanish  Stairs, 

(Whose  cadence,  as  to  music  set, 

Moving  like  measured  minuet, 

Would  charm  your  new-world  cares), 


Might  see  the  shrine  you  helped  to  save ; 

And  yonder  blest  of  cypresses, 
That  proud  above  your  poets  wave. 
Warder  of  all  our  song,  you  gave 

What  loyalty  to  these  ! 


The  path  to  Adonais'  bed, 

That  pilgrims  ever  smoother  wear, 
Who  could  than  you  more  fitly  tread  ? — 
Or  with  more  right  from  Ariel  dead 

The  dark  acanthus  bear  ? 


278       TO    ONE    WHO   NEVER    GOT  TO   ROME 

Alas !  your  footstep  could  not  keep 

Your  fond  hope's  rendezvous,  brave  soul ! 

Yet,  if  our  last  thoughts  ere  we  sleep 

Be  couriers  across  the  deep 
To  greet  us  at  the  goal, 


Who  knows  but  now,  aloof  from  ills, 

The  heavenly  vision  that  you  see — 
The  towers  on  the  sapphire  hills, 
The  song,  the  golden  light— fulfils 
Your  dream  of  Italy ! 


THE  SPANISH  STAIRS  279 


THE  SPANISH  STAIRS 

[!T  will  be  recalled  that  the  house  in  which  Keats  died  adjoins 
the  Spanish  Stairs  in  Rome.  It  has  been  proposed  to  remove  the 
fountain  below  them  to  make  room  for  the  tramway  in  the  piazza.] 

ROME,  symbol  of  all  change,  oh,  change  not  here! 
Thou,  ever  avid  of  beauty,  who  shall  say 
Thou  hast  forsworn  it  in  a  vain  display 
And  blare  of  discord,  as  though  eager  ear 

Listening  for  nightingale  heard  chanticleer? 

Oh,  leave  these  sunny  stairs,  that  float  and  stray 
From  fountain  blithe  and  flowers'  rich  array 
To  beckoning  bells  and  chanting  nuns  anear. 

Of  all  the  dead  that  loved  them,  hear  that  voice 
Whose  sorrow  and  last  silence  once  they  knew, 
Whose  spirit  guards  them  with  his  flaming  theme, 

The  immortal  joy  of  beauty.     Oh,  rejoice, 
And  stay  thy  hand :   that  future  ages,  too, 
By  them  may  mount  to  heaven,  like  Jacob  in  his 
dream. 

PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA, 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  1903. 


28o  THE  NAME   WRIT  IN  WATER 

THE  NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER 

(PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA,  ROME) 
The  Spirit  of  the  Fountain  speaks  : 

YONDER  's  the  window  my  poet  would  sit  in 
While  my  song  murmured  of  happier  days ; 

Mine  is  the  water  his  name  has  been  writ  in, 
Sure  and  immortal  my  share  in  his  praise. 

Gone  are  the  pilgrims  whose  green  wreaths  here  hung 

for  him,— 

Gone  from  their  fellows  like  bubbles  from  foam ; 
Long  shall  outlive  them  the  songs  have  been  sung  for 

him; 
Mine  is  eternal — or  Rome  were  not  Rome. 

Far  on  the  mountain  my  fountain  was  fed  for  him, 
Bringing  soft  sounds  that  his  nature  loved  best : 

Sighing  of  pines  that  had  fain  made  a  bed  for  him ; 
Seafaring  rills,  on  their  musical  quest ; 

Bells  of  the  fairies  at  eve,  that  I  rang  for  him ; 

Nightingale's  glee,  he  so  well  understood ; 
Chant  of  the  dryads  at  dawn,  that  I  sang  for  him ; 

Swish  of  the  snake  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 


THE  NAME    WRIT  IN  WATER  281 

Little  he  knew  'twixt  his  dreaming  and  sleeping, 
The  while  his  sick  fancy  despaired  of  his  fame, 

What  glory  I  held  in  my  loverly  keeping : 
Listen!   my  waters  will  whisper  his  name. 


282  SPRING  AT  THE    VILLA    CONTI 


SPRING  AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI 

OF  Time  and  Nature  still  the  fairest  daughter, 

Low-voiced  Repose!     Here  thou  dost  ever  dwell, 

While  Fancy  wills  no  more  to  wander  on. 
With  how  few  simples  dost  thou  steep  the  sense, 
Holding  in  soft  suspense, 

Like  pauses  in  the  tolling  of  a  bell, 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
Nothing  is  here  but  woods  and  water, 

Spaces,  and  stone,  and  a  sculptor's  wit 

Simply  to  fashion  it 
Into  one  long  line  of  many  niches, 
Whose  fountains  are  fed  by  the  rushing  riches 

That,  bowl  to  bowl,  from  the  woodland  pool 

Fall  in  a  rhythm  clear  and  strong, 

Singing  to  Nature  her  eldest  song, 

Prattling  their  paradox— restfully  restless. 
O  March,  with  never  a  moment  zestless, 

Nor  the  sun  too  warm  nor  the  shade  too  cool! 
O  May,  and  the  music  of  birds  now  nestless! 

Come  soon  and  brood  o'er  the  woodland  pool! 


SPRING   AT  THE    VILLA    CONTI  283 

(For  lover  or  nightingale  who  can  wait? 
Whenever  he  cometh  he  cometh  late.) 
The  light  plays  over  the  ilex  green, 
Turning  to  silver  the  somber  sheen, 

And  Spring  in  the  heart  of  the  day  doth  dwell 
As  the  thought  of  a  loved  one  dwells  with  me, 
And  only  three  cypresses  to  tell 
"  This  is  not  Heaven,  but  Italy." 

FRASCATI,  March,  1903. 


284  COMO  IN  APRIL 


COMO  IN  APRIL 

THE  wind  is  Winter,  though  the  sun  be  Spring : 

The  icy  rills  have  scarce  begun  to  flow ; 
The  birds  unconfidently  fly  and  sing. 

As  on  the  land  once  fell  the  northern  foe, 

The  hostile  mountains  from  the  passes  fling 
Their  vandal  blasts  upon  the  lake  below. 

Not  yet  the  round  clouds  of  the  Maytime  cling 
Above  the  world's  blue  wonder's  curving  show, 
And  tempt  to  linger  with  their  lingering. 

Yet  doth  each  slope  a  vernal  promise  know : 

See,  mounting  yonder,  white  as  angel's  wing, 
A  snow  of  bloom  to  meet  the  bloom  of  snow. 

Love,  need  we  more  than  our  imagining 

To  make  the  whole  year  May?  What  though 
The  wind  be  Winter  if  the  heart  be  Spring  ? 


THE    VINES   THAT  MISSED    THE  BEES     285 


THE  VINES  THAT  MISSED  THE  BEES 

(TO  COUNT  COSIMO  RUCELLAI  OF  FLORENCE  WITH  A 

COPY  OF  HIS  ANCESTOR  GIOVANNI  RUCELLAl'S 

POEM   "THE  BEES") 

ONCE,  when  I  saw  the  tears  upon  your  vines 

You  told  me  they  were  "weeping"— but  for  what? 

I  find  their  secret  in  your  kinsman's  lines : 
They  missed  the  honeyed  music  he  has  caught. 

FLORENCE,  April,  1906. 


286     THE  POET  IN  THE   CHILDREN'S  EYES 


THE  POET  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  EYES 

(TO  COUNTESS  EDITH  RUCELLAI,  DESCENDANT  OF  JOSEPH 

RODMAN  DRAKE,  —  IN  HER  ALBUM,  CONTAINING 

LINES  BY  BROWNING,  LONGFELLOW, 

LOWELL,  AND  OTHERS) 

THOU  of  a  poet's  blood,  and  many  a  tie 
Of  kin  or  friendship  with  the  singing  race : 

How  shall  I  dare,  without  a  throb  or  sigh, 

Near  these  lost  bards  beloved  my  name  to  place! 

One  wish  I  offer,  though  with  halting  fingers : 
That  in  thy  brood,  of  eager  eyes  divine, 

The  poet  that  within  the  mother  lingers 
May  find  a  voice  worthy  the  deathless  line. 

FLORENCE,  April,  1906. 


TO  DREYFUS   VINDICATED  287 


TO  DREYFUS  VINDICATED* 


SOLDIER  of  Justice, — fighting  with  her  sword 
Since  thine  was  broken !    Who  need  now  despair 
To  lead  a  hope  forlorn  against  the  throng! 

For  what  did  David  dare 
Before  Goliath  worthy  this  compare— 
Thou  in  the  darkness  fronting  leagued  wrong? 
What  true  and  fainting  cause  shall  not  be  heir 
Of  all  thy  courage — more  than  miser's  hoard! 
In  times  remote,  when  some  preposterous  111 
Man  has  not  yet  imagined,  shall  be  King, 

While  comfortable  Freedom  nods, — 
And  Three  shall  meet  to  slay  the  usurping  thing, 
Thy  name  recalled  shall  clinch  their  potent  will, 
And  as  they  cry,  "He  won— what  greater  odds!" 

They  shall  become  as  gods. 

ii 

Oh,  what  a  star  is  one  man's  steadfastness, 
To  reckon  from,  to  follow,  and  to  bless! 

*See  also  page  236. 


288  TO  DREYFUS   VINDICATED 

Thou  that  didst  late  belong 

To  every  land  but  France— the  unribboned  Knight 
To  whom  her  honor  and  thine  own  were  one : 
Now,  on  the  morrow  of  thy  faithful  fight 

When  once  more  shines  the  sun 

And  all  the  weak  are  strong,— 
No  less  we  call  thee  ours 
That  thou  art  doubly  hers,  the  while  she  showers 

On  thine  unhumbled  head 
Her  penitential  laurels  and  her  flowers, 
As  might  we  on  one  risen  from  the  dead :  — 

France,  generous  at  last, 
Impassioned  nobly  to  retrieve  her  passion  overpast. 

Ours,  too,  thy  champions!    Who  shall  dare  to 

say 

The  sordid  time  doth  lack  of  chivalry, 
When  men  thus  all  renounce,  all  cast  away, 
To  walk  with  martyrs  through  a  flaming  sea! 
Picquart!  —how  jealously  will  Life  patrol 
The  paths  of  peril  whither  he  is  sent. 

Zola! — too  early  gone! 
Whose  taking  even  Death  might  well  repent, 
Though  't  was  to  enrich  that  greater  Pantheon 
Where  dwell  the  spirits  of  the  brave  of  soul. 


TO  DREYFUS   VINDICATED  289 


III 

Yet  doth  thy  triumph  find  its  better  part, 
Soldier  of  Mercy,  in  thine  own  great  heart, 
That,  in  the  vision  of  thy  loneliest  time, 
Learned,  like  the  poet,  "  All  revenge  is  crime." 
But  though  thine  enemies  may  never  feel 
The  gyves  that  with  injustice  mangled  thee, 
Pierced  shall  their  souls  be  by  a  sharper  steel— 
The  blade  of  conscience— faultless  weaponry! 

Though,  free  from  Law's  reprisal, 
They  lie  within  no  dank  and  sheathing  cell 
Where  horror  doth  approximate  to  hell; — 
Though  they  may  never,  near  the  brink  of  death, 
Accuse   with    proud,    pure    hands    the    God     of 
Light ;  - 

Yet  is  the  day  their  night ; 
Yet  is  the  world  their  prison,  and  their  breath 
But  the  slow  poison  of  the  world's  despisal. 
Leave  them— so  deaf  to  pity— unto  Him 
Who  taught  thee  pity  in  thine  exile  caged   and 

dim. 


29o  TO  DREYFUS   VINDICATED 

ENVOI 

OH,  tremble,  all  oppressors,  where  ye  be— 
Throne,  senate,  mansion,  mart,  or  factory ; 
One  against  many,  many  against  few ; 
Ye  poor,  once  crushed,  that  crush  your  own  anew ; 
Ye  vulgar  rich,  new-risen  from  the  mud, 
Despoilers  of  the  flower  in  the  bud : 
For  justice  is  the  orbit  of  God's  day, 
And  He  hath  promised  that  He  will  repay. 


THE  ABSENT  GUEST  2gi 


THE  ABSENT  GUEST 

(READ  MARCH  20,  1907,  AT  THE  ANNUAL  DINNER  OP 
THE  MACDOWELL  ASSOCIATION,  FOUNDED  TO 
PROMOTE  EDWARD  MACDOWELL's  PLANS 
FOR  A  SYMPATHETIC  COOPERA 
TION  OF  THE  ARTS) 

Go,  wreathe  his  chair  with  laurel, 
And  brim  his  glass  with  wine, 

And  let  one  silent  place  proclaim 
The  presence  we  divine. 

To  sorrow  for  so  pure  a  soul, 

So  warm  a  heart  as  he, 
Makes  never  discord  at  a  feast 

Given  to  Harmony. 

The  dream  he  dreamed  by  starlight 

Is  not  less  fair  by  sun : 
That  Beauty  may  to  Beauty  join 

Till  all  the  arts  be  one ; 


292  THE  ABSENT  GUEST 

That  each  who  serves  the  Muses, 
And  weaves  the  magic  thrall 

With  words,  or  sounds,  or  speechless  earth, 
May  brother  be  to  all. 

On  this  wide  hearth  he  lighted 

A  new-inspiring  flame, 
Whose  torch  to  kindling  torch  for  aye 

Shall  whisper  of  his  fame. 

Join  hands  for  that  Ideal 

He  loved  and  worshiped  most.  .  .  . 

Our  absent  guest,  I  said?  .  .  Ah,  no! 
He  is  our  absent  host. 


THE   CZAK'S  OPPORTUNITY  293 


THE  CZAR'S  OPPORTUNITY 

THE  SUNDAY  MASSACRE,  ST.  PETERSBURG,  JANUARY  22 


HE  heard  his  loyal  people  cry 

Like  children  to  a  saint  : 
"  Help,  Little  Father,  or  we  die  ! 

We  starve,  we  freeze,  we  faint. 
The  noble  hears  not  for  his  crimes, 

The  soldier,  for  his  drum, 
The  Procurator,  for  his  chimes  — 

To  thee  at  last  we  come. 

"  To-morrow,  when  the  bells  have  ceased, 

Before  thy  palace  door 
A  throng  shall  stand,  as  at  a  feast, 

Thy  mercy  to  implore. 
And  that  with  favor  it  be  crowned, 

The  prayer  we  bring  to  thee 
Shall  on  .the  Holy  Cross  be  bound 

As  Christ  on  Calvary." 


294  THE   CZAR'S  OPPORTUNITY 

Then  the  good  angel  of  the  Czar 

Spake  with  a  sibyl's  voice : 
"  Let  no  mischance  this  moment  mar, 

'T  is  sent  thee  to  rejoice. 
Go  meet  thy  people  as  they  trudge 

Toward  thee  their  weary  way, 
To  find  in  thee  a  righteous  judge ; 

And  go  unarmed  as  they. 

"  Enough,  through  centuries  of  wrong, 

Thy  line's  inverted  fame, 
The  Romanoff  has  been  too  long 

The  synonym  of  shame. 
Then  haste  to  meet  the  cross  afar, 

Do  thou  what  courage  can, 
And  thou  shalt  be  the  greater  Czar 

If  thou  but  show  thee  man." 

He  rose,  resolved;  but — fortune  dire! 

One  glance  his  purpose  crossed : 
An  impulse  from  some  recreant  sire 

Triumphed,  and  he  was  lost. 
The  flower  is  trampled  in  the  sod ; 

False  dawn  delays  the  day : 
And  once  again  the  Will  of  God 

Marches  the  bloody  way. 


THE  LOVER   OF  HIS  KIND  295 


THE  LOVER  OF  HIS  KIND 

WREATHS  for  the  Soldier,  if  it  be 
His  sword  be  sworn  to  Liberty ! 
Wreaths  for  the  Poet  who  shall  bring 
New  light  to  Dawn,  new  joy  to  Spring  1 
Wreaths  for  the  Hero  who  shall  brave 
The  peril  of  the  flame  or  wave ! 
But  keep  one  wreath  for  him  whose  days 
Too  happy  for  the  need  of  praise — 
Glow  with  the  love  and  hope  that  plan 
A  richer  heritage  for  Man. 

He  keeps  his  faith  amid  the  grime 
And  scramble  of  our  modern  time. 
His  eyes  are  sight  to  countless  feet 
That  else  would  stumble  in  the  street. 
Riches  the  poor  would  throw  away 
He  saves  to  make  their  better  day. 
Taught  both  by  sorrow  and  by  sin, 
His  great  heart's  portals  open  in, 


296 


THE  LOVER   OF  HIS  KIND 

And,  though  not  reckoned  with  the  great, 
His  hidden  labors  prop  the  State. 

For  ages  History  pondered  long 
The  flaunted  records  of  the  strong. 
To-day  she  craves  the  subtle  power 
To  know  the  soil  that  grows  the  flower. 
To-morrow  she  perchance  may  speak 
The  judgments  of  the  voiceless  weak. 


TOGETHER  297 


TOGETHER 

ALL  life  is  but  one  and  man's  nature  not  lower  or 

higher 

If  true  to  his  finest  he  be,  whether  body  or  soul. 
Each  some  time  seems  loftier,  bidding  the  other  aspire ; 
Lift  both  to  the  height  of  their  best  and  make  per- 
feet  the  whole ! 


298  SOMETHING  IN  BEAUTY 


SOMETHING  IN  BEAUTY  BINDS  US  TO 
THE  GOOD 

HELEN  's  of  the  goddess-height, 
Formed  to  lavish  on  the  sight 
Lines  to  give  the  world  delight ; 
Rest  and  Motion  there  contend 
Which  to  her  the  more  may  lend, 
Grace  and  dignity  to  blend. 

Gentle  as  the  turning  tide 
Is  her  breathing,  scarce  espied 
Where  the  virgin  gown  doth  hide ; 
Yet  increase  of  sympathy 
Makes  her  throbbing,  like  the  sea, 
Fit  your  sorrow  or  your  glee. 

For  her  quick  responses  reach 
Into  regions  beyond  speech, 
Mating  with  the  mood  of  each ; 


BINDS    US   TO    THE   GOOD  299 

Heaven  having  matched  her  form 
With  a  woman's  heart  as  warm 
As  first  firelight  after  storm. 

Not  less  graciously  was  planned 
Her  large,  perfect,  helpful  hand 
With  its  hint  of  soft  command ; 
Fairest  at  her  face  it  shows 
When  her  lips  caress  a  rose, 
While  her  laughing  lids  half  close. 

White  and  noble  is  her  brow 
With  the  pureness  of  a  vow 
Such  as  I  am  breathing  now. 
Ever  so,  if  Beauty  could 
Be  by  mortals  understood, 
It  would  bind  us  to  the  good. 


3oo       ON  A   LADY'S  CHATELAINE  MIRROR 


ON  A  LADY'S  CHATELAINE  MIRROR 
(TO  M.  L.  u.) 

WERE  there  a  mirror  for  the  soul 
To  give  report  of  joy  or  dole, 

How  we  should  o'er  thy  shoulder  peer 
To  find  the  secret  of  thy  cheer. 


THE  SCAR  301 


THE  SCAR 

BUT  one  the  scar  had  ever  seen. 
Some  said  't  was  got  in  valiant  fight 
With  foe  too  strong ;  some  hinted  flight, 

And  wondered  where  "  the  scratch  "  had  been, 
And  marveled  he  survived  its  might ! 

Month  upon  month,  and  year  on  year 
Passed,  and  his  dumb  lips  gave  no  sign. 
But  men  remarked,  like  some  rare  wine, 

The  smile,  that  brought  to  joy  new  cheer, 
And  gave  to  grief  an  anodyne. 

While  he  lay  dead,  there  drew  apart 

Two,  whispering ;  then,  their  courage  found, 
They  tore  aside  the  band  that  bound ; 

A  third,  with  woman's  gentle  art, 
Hid  with  her  hair  his  open  wound. 


COMPELLING  LOVE 


COMPELLING  LOVE 

I  SING  not  Love  prose-mated 
With  Pride  or  Sense,  soon  sated, 
Where  give  and  take  are  rated 

In  terms  of  bargain-buyer ; 
Nor  Love  that  sells  her  dearly 
For  so  much  shelter  yearly, 
As  Cupid's  torch  were  merely 

To  light  the  kitchen  fire ; 

Nor  Love  that  lingers,  longing, 
In  reasoned  absence,  wronging 
The  soul's  desires,  thronging 

As  pleading  angels  bend ; 
Nor  Love  that  never  misses 
The  mate's  estranged  kisses, 
And  is,  of  former  blisses, 

Content  to  keep— a  friend ; 


COMPELLING  LOVE  303 

Nor  prudish  Love  repressive 
That,  lest  it  seem  aggressive, 
With  modesty  excessive 

Deems  maiden  more  than  wife ; 
Nor  Love  that  fain  would  fetter 
The  spirit  with  the  letter, 
As  there  were  something  better 

Than  holy  human  life. 

But  Love,  of  Fate  elected, 
That,  coming  unexpected, 
Can  never  be  rejected  — 

The  sea  no  shore  can  stop ; 
That  waits  not  to  be  bidden, 
And  answers  not  when  chidden, 
And  can  no  more  be  hidden 

Than  flame  on  mountain-top. 

Such  Love  need  not  beleaguer 
A  garrison  so  meager 
With  its  commander  eager 

To  say  the  craven  word, — 
Who  prays  not  heaven  to  send  her 
A  champion  to  defend  her, 
Rejoicing  to  surrender 

When  Love's  demand  is  heard. 


304  COMPELLING  LOVE 

Give  me  the  Love  O'erflowing, 
The  fond  eye's  fervent  glowing, 
The  tranced  heart  out-going 

To  meet  both  soul  and  sense ; 
The  Love  whose  years  are  reckoned 
By  day,  by  hour,  by  second 
When  some  new  wonder  beckoned 

To  some  new  joy  intense. 

No  calculated  passion 

Of  artificial  fashion, 

But  nature's  daily  ration  — 

The  feast  of  Youth  and  Age; 
Defying  Time's  estranging, 
Untiring  and  unchanging, 
Without  a  thought  of  ranging — 

The  song  without  the  cage. 


THE  MARCHING-SONG 


305 


THE  MARCHING-SONG 

Lonely    the  forest  to    him    who   threads   it   without   a 

companion  ; 
Lonely  the  sea  when   its  lonely  fog   lifts  upon  sail-less 

horizon  ; 

Lonelier  populous  city  to  one  without  comrades  or  kindred  ; 
Lonelier  still  when  the  moonlight — in  language  invented 

by  lovers — 
Speaks  of  the  nights  that  are  gone  and  the  places  it,  only, 

remembers. 

Thus,  longing  for  forest  or  sea,  I  sat,  in  the  heat  of  the 

city, 
My  only  companion  the  friend  to  whom  I  was  writing 

my  envy, 
When  out  of    the  distance   there  floated  a  beautiful 

choral  of  voices. 
Nearer  and  nearer  they  came  while  I,  from  my  balcony 

leaning, 
Drank  with  the  thirst   of  the  desert  the   gladdening 

draught  of  the  music. 


306  THE  MARCHING-SONG 

Twenty  the  count  of  the  striplings  who  marched  with  a 

rhythmical  footfall, 
Joyous  the  trebles,  exultant  the  tenors,  and  solemn  the 

basses,— 
They  and  their  song  of  a  harmony  perfect  and  full  and 

reciprocal, 
Music  that  moistened  the  eyes  long  after  the  singers 

departed. 


Who  could  they  be— thus  to  add  to  the  beautiful  night 

a  new  beauty  ? 
Friends,  of  some  serious  purpose,  united  more  strongly 

in  singing. 
Surely  not  sons  of  the  rich,  for  the  rich  are  united  in 

nothing. 
Riches  divide,  and  scant  is  the  friendship  based  only 

on  plenty. 
These  were  no  roysterers  breaking  the  rhythm  of  night 

with  their  discord, 
Who  find  no  diversion  worth  while  that   makes   not 

unhappy  their  fellows ; 
Rather  some  guild  of  the  poor  returning  from  study  or 

pleasure, 
Stronger  by  toil  or  by  rest,  each  with  the  strength  of 

his  fellows ; 


THE  MARCHING-SONG  307 

Buoyant  with  youth,  glad  with  hope  and  in  sympathy 

banded, 
Marching    serenely    as     one,    helpfully,    shoulder    to 

shoulder. 

Back  to  my  letter  I  went  and  with  shame  I  destroyed 

my  repinings. 
I  thought  how  the  song  would  have  fitted  the  eloquent  . 

vision  of  Whitman, — 
Pondered  the  spirit  of  comradeship   shown   in  these 

marchers  courageous. 

Lonely  though  sometime  it  seems,  our  wine-press  of 

toil  or  of  sorrow, 
Brothers,  we  move  to  one  ultimate  goal,  in  invisible 

phalanx, 
In  columns  as  wide  as  the  world  and  as  long  as  the 

slow-growing  ages. 
I  know  you  are  there  by  the  grasp  of  your  hands  and 

the  cheer  of  your  voices. 


308  RECOGNITION 


RECOGNITION 

"O  FRIEND  of  other  days  "  — 
You  start,  at  our  first  meeting, 
To  hear  the  cordial  greeting, 
And  search  the  past  for  warrant  of  the  phrase. 
"  My  soul,"  you  say,  "  have  I  forgot 
Some  memorable  hour  and  spot 
When,  with  long-clasping  hand 
And  confident  demand, 
Mine  eye  its  tribute  took 
In  level,  lingering  look  ? 
Or,  in  some  age  of  yore 
Trod  we  this  path  before  ?  " 

But  why  look  back  for  treasure  ?     Many  a  star 
Was  undiscovered  once.     Our  choicest  good 
Was  erst  an  unseen  angel ;  long  she  stood 
So  near  we  knew  not  and  esteemed  it  far, 
For  what  to  her  was  veil  to  us  was  bar. 


RECOGNITION 

No,  not  quite  yet  that  moment,  rich  but  dumb, 

Of  friendship's  troth  the  sum. 

We  tread  the  same  path  toward  it :   we  but  hear 

The  inland  tide  to  know  the  ocean  near. 

'T  is  to  the  future,  not  the  past,  must  be 

Your  staunchest  loyalty, 
O  Friend  of  other  days— to  come  ! 


MESSAGE  BACK  TO    YOUTH 


A  MESSAGE  BACK  TO  YOUTH 

THEY  told  me  "  Youth  is  all  revolt, 

And  age  is  all  repose  "  ; 
That  Time  would  medicine  my  fault, 

As  every  graybeard  knows ; 

Him  whom  the  misty  Morn  deceives 
Sage  Noon  from  doubt  would  wean, 

As  the  sapling  of  the  restless  leaves 
Becomes  an  oak  serene. 

They  told  me  Love  was  strongest  there, 

Unbridled  by  Content; 
Life's  tame  meridian  years  could  ne  'er 

Know  passion  so  unpent. 

I  heard  their  whispered  counselings : 
"  Be  patient  with  his  dreams, 
Time  to  the  best  ideal  brings 
The  verdict '  It  but  seems.1 " 


A  MESSAGE  BACK  TO    YOUTH  31  j 

But  I  have  found  not  as  they  planned 

The  scheme  of  good  and  ill. 
Though  full  in  sight  of  age  I  stand, 

I  am  a  rebel  still. 


For  me  and  for  my  kind  I  feel 

The  pathos  of  mistake, 
And  covet  knowledge  for  my  zeal 

To  help  the  world  awake. 

I  find  in  labyrinthine  wrong 
But  one— Love's  silken — clew. 

The  way  from  what  we  know,  how  long 
It  lies,  to  what  we  do! 

Since  there  be  wings  the  blue  to  cleave. 

Why  be  content  to  plod  ? 
Were  man  less  laggard,  he  might  leave 

The  patience  unto  God. 

Still  the  weird  figures  in  the  mist, 
That  held  my  youth  in  awe, 

Defy  the  toil  of  analyst 
To  range  them  into  law. 


3I2 


A   MESSAGE  BACK   TO    YOUTH 

And  Love?— What  all  the  youthful  fire 
(They  said  would  die  so  soon), 

To  wiser  man's  mature  desire 
But  dawn  compared  to  noon? 

And  though  within  my  happy  sight 
My  children's  children  play, 

I  find  no  fading  of  the  light 
That  made  my  magic  day. 

The  clearer  vision  but  discerns 
The  needs  that  Youth  foreknew : 

More  wonderful  the  sun  that  turns 
To  rainbow  in  the  dew. 

The  world's  heart  still  in  Music  beats 

Against  this  heart  of  mine, 
That,  more  than  ever,  gladly  greets 

Day's  pageantry  divine. 

Still  unappeased  the  boy's  desire, 

Still  tireless  is  the  quest ; 
As  to  the  summit  leaps  the  fire, 

The  better  seeks  the  best. 


DAPHNE 


DAPHNE 

YES,  I  grant  you,  she  is  pretty,  with  the  pink  of  early 

morn, 
Pretty  as  the  palest  rose-leaf  ever  blushed  above  a 

thorn ; 
And  her  backward  look  is  saucy,  and  the  quick  toss 

of  her  head- 
Well,  a  boy  likes  chasing  better  if  the  colt  be  thorough 
bred. 

And  her  mouth— 't  was  made  for  smiling,  winning 
you  against  your  will 

With  its  Cupid's  bow  and  dainty  teeth,  like  young 
cadets  a-drill, 

And  the  careless  pagan  laughter,  such  as  by  the 
river's  brink 

Charmed  Apollo  in  his  Daphne  as  Jt  were  some  de 
licious  drink, 


314  DAPHNE 

Yes,  I  own  my  heart  does  answer  to  the  blitheness  of 

her  call. 
Still,    there    's    something   that    is   wanting   in   our 

Daphne,  after  all. 
I,  who  hold  no  woman  perfect  sans  a  spice  of  the 

coquette, 
Find   a  curving  eyelash  lovelier  that  it  sometimes 

should  be  wet. 


And  they  say  the  way  is  weary  for  the  man  that  fol 
lows  whim 

Till  the  brilliance  of  the  little  lawless  graces  shall 
grow  dim ; 

And  the  girl's  piquant  surprises  may  be  tedious  in  the 
wife, 

And  the  pin-pricks  of  the  sapling  toughen  to  the 
goads  of  life. 

Then,  my  boy,  beware  of  Daphne.     Learn  a  lesson 

from  the  rat : 

What  is  cunning  in  the  kitten  may  be  cruel  in  the  cat. 
In  the  game  of  life  the  trump  is,  not  the  spade  of 

crafty  art, 
Power's  club,  or  riches'  diamond,  but,  believe  me, 

boy,  Love's  heart. 


THE    TRUE  BIBLIOPHILE 


THE  TRUE  BIBLIOPHILE 

WHAT  is  a  bibliophile?     Mere  lover 

Of  Whatman  page  and  Mearne-made  cover, 

Of  crushed  levant  whereround  doth  hover 

A  rare  aroma? 

Whose  bookcase,  double-locked,  affords 
Such  ancient  treasures  bound  in  boards 
One  has  suspicions  that  it  hoards 

An  MS.  Homer? 

What  is  a  bibliophile?  Mere  seeker 
For  finds  to  make  all  rivals  meeker — 
Now  down  in  Ann  Street,  now  in  Bleecker, 

To  lose  no  chance 

That  some  neglected  shop  may  show 
A  fine  unopened,  pristine  Poe, 
Flanked  by  an  unfoxed  Folio, 

With  provenance? 


316  THE    TRUE  BIBLIOPHILE 

What  is  a  bibliophile?     Mere  sigher 

For  Trautz,  Derome  and  Payne  ?     A  buyer 

Of  Incunabula  by  wire, 

Or  tall  Bodoni?  — 

Who,  in  his  dreams,  of  sales  doth  rave, 
To  others'  bidding  still  a  slave, 
And  oft  to  many  a  bookish  knave 

Who  claims  him  crony? 

These  things  I  do  not  hold  as  guile ; 
But  must  one,  as  a  bibliophile, 
Be  captive  on  a  treasure  isle 

And  live  as  lonely? 
;T  were  better  not  to  hoard  or  spend, 
Better  to  borrow  books — or  lend — 
And  know,  like  Field's  o'er-pitied  friend, 

Their  insides  only. 

Give  me  the  man  who  's  always  finding 
His  heart  imbedded  in  the  binding, 
With  threads  of  love  about  it  winding— 

A  book  no  longer ; 

Who  laughs  with  Lever,  smiles  with  Lamb, 
Spouts  "  rare  Ben  Jonson,"  or  with  Sam 
Learns  to  despise  the  great  world's  sham, 

And  so  grows  stronger. 


THE    TRUE  BIBLIOPHILE  317 

Ah!    though  you  have  all  Rosinantes 
Were  ever  drawn  for  blithe  Cervantes, 
And  all  the  text  of  all  the  Dantes, 

'T  will  little  profit 
If  you  shall  feel  not  in  the  Knight 
The  pathos  of  his  human  plight, 
Or  share  not  in  the  Stygian  sight 

The  terror  of  it. 


3i8  "PELLEAS  ET  MELISANDE 


"PELLfiAS  ET  MfiLISANDE" 

(INSCRIBED  TO  MISS  MARY  GARDEN  IN  ADMIRATION 
OF  HER  BEAUTIFUL  IMPERSONATION) 

WHAT  is  there  more  of  love  to  tell  in  rhyme 
Than  in  this  piteous  chronicle  is  told — 
This  year-long  epic  of  the  heart,  as  old 
As  ivied  tower  deep  in  dust  and  grime, 

And  yet  as  new  as  the  young  leaves  that  climb 
To  lovers'  casements  ?     'T  is  a  tale  of  gold — 
Crown,  ring,  and  tresses— slipping  from  the  hold 
Of  woodland  innocence,  the  sport  of  Time. 

Read  the  dark  legend  told  in  terms  of  light : 
The  mist-hung  sea ;  the  somber  forest  noon  ; 
Swift  clouds  of  peril ;  twilight's  closing  gate 

To  what  were  prison  but  for  the  amorous  moon ; 
Then  weep,  with  tears  that  make  us  wise,  her  plight 
Who,  dove-like,  flutters  in  the  net  of  fate. 


WATERS  OF  SONG 


WATERS  OF  SONG 

TIME  was  when  Avon's  unrenowned  stream, 
Save  for  its  beauty,  unregarded  flowed ; 
Once  Arno  even  as  other  rivers  glowed, 
For  then  it  had  not  mirrored  Dante's  dream. 

How  vague  the  gray  Levantine  sea  did  seem 
Ere  Homer  charted  all  the  stormy  road! 
The  Psalmist  who  by  Babylon  abode 
Forever  linked  with  grief  the  willow's  gleam. 

Think  you  there  are  no  other  waters  fit 
To  be  rechristened  with  a  poet's  name? 
Is  Nature  bankrupt?— man's  last  beacon  lit? 

Believe  it  never!    Unborn  bards  such  fame 
On  undiscovered  rivers  may  bestow 
As  shall  to  fable  banish  Nile  and  Po. 


V 
SAINT-GAUDENS:  AN  ODE 


TO  FRANK  HALL  SCOTT 


SAINT-GAUDENS* 

BORN    IN   DUBLIN,    IRELAND,    MARCH    1,    1848  — DIED    IN 
CORNISH,    NEW    HAMPSHIRE,   AUGUST   3,    1907 


UPLANDS  of  Cornish !    Ye,  that  yesterday 
Were  only  beauteous,  now  are  consecrate. 
Exalted  are  your  humble  slopes,  to  mate 
Proud  Settignano  and  Fiesole, 
For  here  new-born  is  Italy's  new  birth  of  Art. 
In  your  beloved  precincts  of  repose 
Now  is  the  laurel  lovelier  than  the  rose. 

Henceforth  there  shall  be  seen 
An  unaccustomed  glory  in  the  sheen 
Of  yonder  lingering  river,  overleant  with  green, 
Whose  fountains  hither  happily  shall  start, 
Like  eager  Umbrian  rills,  that  kiss  and  part, 
For  that  their  course  will  run 
One  to  the  Tiber,  to  the  Arno  one. 
O  hills  of  Cornish !  chalice  of  our  spilled  wine, 
Ye  shall  become  a  shrine, 

*  Read,  in  part,  November  20,  1909,  in  New  York  at  the  pre 
sentation  to  Mrs.  Saint-Gaudens  of  the  gold  medal  of  the  National 
Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  awarded  to  the  sculptor's  work. 

22  335 


326  SAINT-GAUDENS 

For  now  our  Donatello  is  no  more ! 

He  who  could  pour 
His  spirit  into  clay,  has  lost  the  clay  he  wore, 

And  Death,  again,  at  last, 
Has  robbed  the  Future  to  enrich  the  Past. 

He,  who  so  often  stood 
At  joyous  worship  in  your  Sacred  Wood, 

He  shall  be  missed 
As  autumn  meadows  miss  the  lark, 
Where  Summer  and  Song  were  wont  to  keep  melodious 

tryst. 

His  fellows  of  the  triple  guild  shall  hark 
For  his  least  whisper  in  the  starry  dark. 
Here,  in  his  memory,  Youth  shall  dedicate 
Laborious  years  to  that  unfolding  which  is  Fate. 

By  Beauty's  faintest  gleams 
She  shall  be  followed  over  glades  and  streams. 
And  all  that  is  shall  be  forgot 

For  what  is  not ; 
And  every  common  path  shall  lead  to  dreams. 

ii 

POET  of  Cornish,  comrade  of  his  days : 

When  late  we  met, 

With  his  remembrance  how  thine  eyes  were  wet ! 
Thy  faltering  voice  his  praise 


SAINT-GAUDENS  327 

More  eloquently  did  rehearse 
Than  on  his  festal  day  thy  liquid  verse. 
Since  once  to  love  is  never  to  forget, 
Let  us  defer  our  plaint  of  private  sorrow 
Till  some  less  unethereal  to-morrow. 
To-day  is  not  the  poet's  shame 
But  the  dull  world's ;  not  yet 
Shall  it  be  kindled  at  the  living  flame 

Whose  treasured  embers 

Ever  the  world  remembers. 
Not  so  the  sculptor — his  immediate  bays 
No  hostile  climate  withers  or  delays. 
Let  us  forego  the  debt  of  friendly  duty ; 
A  nation  newly  is  bereft  of  beauty. 
Sing  with  me  now  his  undef erred  fame, — 

For  Time  impatient  is  to  set 
This  jewel  in  his  country's  coronet. 
When  all  men  with  new  accent  speak  his  name, 
And  all  are  blended  in  a  vast  regret, 
There  is  no  place  for  grief  of  thee  or  me : 
One  reckons  not  the  rivers  in  the  sea. 
Sing  not  to-day  the  hearth  despoiled  of  fire : 
Ours  be  the  trumpet,  not  the  lyre. 

Death  makes  the  great 
The  treasure  and  the  sorrow  of  the  State. 

Nor  is  it  less  bereaved 

By  what  is  unachieved. 


328  SAINT-GA  UDENS 

Oh,  what  a  miracle  is  Fame ! 
We  carve  some  lately  unfamiliar  name 
Upon  an  outer  wall,  as  challenge  to  the  sun ; 
And  half  its  claim 
Is  deathless  work  undone. 
Although  the  story  of  our  art  is  brief, 
Thrice  in  the  record,  at  a  fadeless  leaf, 
Falls  an  unfinished  chapter ;  thrice  the  flower 
Closed  ere  the  noonday  glory  drank  its  dew ; 
Thrice  have  we  lost  of  promise  and  of  power — 
The  torch  extinguished  at  its  brightest  hour — 
His  comrades  all,  for  whom  he  twined  the  rue. 
But  though  they  stand  authentic  and  apart 
This  is  in  our  new  land  the  first  great  grief  of  Art. 

in 

YET,  sound  for  him  the  trumpet,  not  the  lyre — 
Him  of  the  ardent,  not  the  smouldering,  fire : 
Whose  boyhood  knew  full  streets  of  martial  song 

When  the  slow  purpose  of  the  throng 
Flamed  to  a  new  religion,  and  a  soul. 
He  knew  the  lure  of  flags ;  caught  first  the  far 
drums'  roll ; 

Thrilled  with  the  flash  that  runs 
Along  the  slanted  guns ; 


SAINT-GAUDENS  329 

Kept  time  to  the  determined  feet 

That  ominously  beat 

Upon  the  city's  floor 
The  firm,  mad  rhythm  of  war. 

With  envious  enterprise 

He  saw  the  serried  eyes 
That,  level  to  the  hour's  demand, 
Looked  straight  toward  Duty's  promised  land. 
Then  to  be  boy  was  to  be  prisoned  fast 
With  the  great  world  of  battle  sweeping  past, 

While  every  hill  and  hollow 

Heard  the  heart-melting  music,  calling  ' '  Follow  !" 
The  day  o'er-brimmed  with  longing  and  the  night 
With  beckoning  dreams  of  many  a  dauntless  fight, 
As  though  doomed  heroes  summoned  us  to  see 

Thermopylaes  and  Marathons. 
— Ah,  had  he  known  who  was  to  be 

Their  laureate  in  bronze ! 

But  who  can  read  To-morrow  in  To-day  ? 
Fame  makes  no  bargain  with  us,  will  not  say 
Do  thus,  and  thou  shalt  gain,  or  thus  and  lose ; 
Nay,  will  not  let  us  for  another  choose 

The  trodden  and  the  lighted  way. 
She  burns  the  accepted  pattern,  breaks  the  mould, 

Prefers  the  novel  to  the  old, 


330  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Revels  in  secrets  and  surprise; 

And  while  the  wise 
Seek  knowledge  at  the  sages'  gate 
The  schoolboy  by  a  truant  path  keeps  rendezvous  with 
Fate. 


IV 

THIS  is  the  honey  in  the  lion's  jaws : 

That  from  the  reverberant  roar 
And  wrack  of  savage  war 
Art  saves  a  sweet  repose,  by  mystic  laws 
Not  by  long  labor  learned 
But  by  keen  love  discerned  ; 
For  this  it  bears  the  palm : 
To  show  the  storms  of  life  in  terms  of  calm. 
Not  what  he  knew,  but  what  he  felt, 
Gave  secret  power  to  this  Celt. 
Master  of  harmony,  his  sense  could  find 
A  bond  of  likeness  among  things  diverse, 
And  could  their  forms  in  beauty  so  immerse 

That  to  the  enchanted  mind 
Ideal  and  real  seem  a  single  kind. 

Behold  our  gaunt  Crusader,  grimly  brave, 
The  swooping  eagle  in  his  face, 


SAINT-GAUDENS  331 

The  very  genius  of  command, 
And  her  not  less,  with  her  imperious  hand, — 
The  herald  Victory  holding  equal  pace. 

Not  trulier  in  the  blast 

Moves  prow  with  mast ; 

Line  mates  with  flowing  line,  as  wave  with  following 
wave — 

Rider  and  homely  horse 

Intent  upon  their  course 

As  though  she  went  not  with  them.    Near  or  far 
One  is  their  import :  she  the  dream,  the  star — 
And  he  the  prose,  the  iron  thrust— of  War. 


So,  on  the  traveled  verge 
Of  storied  Boston's  green  acropolis 
That  sculptured  music,  that  immortal  dirge 
That  better  than  towering  shaft 

Has  fitly  epitaphed 

The  hated  ranks  men  .did  not  dare  to  hiss ! 
When  Duty  makes  her  clarion  call  to  Ease 
Let  her  repair  and  point  to  this : 
Why  seek  another  clime? 
Why  seek  another  place? 
We  have  no  Parthenon,  but  a  nobler  frieze,- 


332  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Since  sacrifice  than  worship  nobler  is. 
It  sings— the  anthem  of  a  rescued  race; 
It  moves — the  epic  of  a  patriot  time, 
And  each  heroic  figure  makes  a  martial  rhyme. 
How  like  ten  thousand  treads  that  little  band, 
Fit  for  the  van  of  armies  !    What  command 
Sits  in  that  saddle !    What  renouncing  will ! 
What  portent  grave  of  firm-confronted  ill ! 
And  as  a  cloud  doth  hover  over  sea, 
Born  from  its  waters  and  returning  there, 
Fame,  sprung  from  thoughts  of  mortals,  swims  the 

air 
And  gives  them  back  her  memories,  deathlessly. 

VI 

I  WEPT  by  Lincoln's  pall  when  children's  tears, 

That  saddest  of  the  nation's  years, 
Were  reckoned  in  the  census  of  her  grief ; 
And,  flooding  every  eye, 
Of  low  estate  or  high, 
The  crystal  sign  of  sorrow  made  men  peers. 

The  raindrop  on  the  April  leaf 
Was  not  more  unashamed.     Hand  spoke  to  hand 
A  universal  language ;  and  whene'er 
The  hopeful  met  't  was  but  to  mingle  their  despair. 


SAINT-GAUDENS  333 

Our  yesterday's  war-widowed  land 
To-day  was  orphaned.     Its  victorious  voice 
Lost  memory  of  the  power  to  rejoice. 
For  he  whom  all  had  learned  to  love  was  prone. 
The  weak  had  slain  the  mighty ;  by  a  whim 
The  ordered  edifice  was  overthrown 
And  lay  in  futile  ruin,  mute  and  dim. 

O  Death,  thou  sculptor  without  art, 

What  didst  thou  to  the  Lincoln  of  our  heart  ? 

Where  was  the  manly  eye 

That  conquered  enmity? 

Where  was  the  gentle  smile 

So  innocent  of  guile — 

The  message  of  good-will 

To  all  men,  whether  good  or  ill  ? 

WThere  shall  we  trace 

Those  treasured  lines,  half  humor  and  half  pain, 
That  made  him  doubly  brother  to  the  race? 
For  these,  O  Death,  we  search  thy  mask  in  vain ! 

Yet  shall  the  Future  be  not  all  bereft : 
Not  without  witness  shall  its  eyes  be  left. 
The  soul,  again,  is  visible  through  Art, 
Servant  of  God  and  Man.    The  immortal  part 


334  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Lives  in  the  miracle  of  a  kindred  mind, 
That  found  itself  in  seeking  for  its  kind. 
The  humble  by  the  humble  is  discerned ; 
And  he  whose  melancholy  broke  in  sunny  wit 
Could  be  no  stranger  unto  him  who  turned 
From  sad  to  gay,  as  though  in  jest  he  learned 
Some  mystery  of  sorrow.    It  was  writ : 
The  hand  that  shapes  us  Lincoln  must  be  strong 
As  his  that  righted  our  bequeathed  wrong; 
The  heart  that  shows  us  Lincoln  must  be  brave, 
An  equal  comrade  unto  king  or  slave ; 
The  mind  that  gives  us  Lincoln  must  be  clear 

As  that  of  seer 
To  fathom  deeps  of  faith  abiding  under  tides  of 

fear. 
What  wonder  Fame,  impatient,  will  not  wait 

To  call  her  sculptor  great 
Who  ke.eps  for  us  in  bronze  the  soul  that  saved  the 

State ! 


VII 


MOST  fair  his  dreams  and  visions  when  he  dwelt 
His  spirit's  comrade.     Meager  was  his  speech 
Of  things  celestial,  save  in  line  and  mould ; 
But  sudden  cloud-rift  may  reveal  a  star 


SAINT-GAUDENS  335 

As  surely  as  the  unimpeded  sky. 
The  deer  has  its  deep  forest  of  retreat : 
Shall  the  shy  spirit  have  none?    Be,  then, 
The  covert  unprofaned  wherein  withdrew 
The  soul  that  'neath  his  pensive  ardor  lay? 
Find  the  last  frontier — Man  is  still  unknown 
ground. 

Things  true  and  beautiful  made  a  heaven  for  him. 

Childhood,  the  sunrise  of  the  spirit  world, 

Yielded  its  limpid  secrets  to  his  eye. 

He  was  in  Friendship  what  he  was  in  Art — 

Wax  to  receive  and  metal  to  endure. 

Looking  upon  his  warriors  facing  death, 

Heroes  seem  human,  such  as  all  might  be — 

Yet  not  without  the  consecrating  will ! 

Age  is  serener  by  his  honoring ; 

And  when  he  sought  the  temple's  inmost  fane 

The  angels  of  his  Adoration  lent 

Old  hopes  new  glory,  and  his  reverent  hand 

Wrought  like  Beato  at  the  face  of  Christ. 

But  what  is  this  that,  neither  Hope  nor  Doom, 
Waits  with  eternal  patience  at  a  tomb? 
A  brooding  spirit  without  name  or  date, 


336  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Or  race,  or  nation,  or  belief; 
Beyond  the  reach  of  joy  or  grief, 
Above  the  plane  of  wrong  or  right ; 
A  riddle  only  to  the  sorrowless ;  the  mate 
Of  all  the  elements  in  calm— still  winter  night, 
Sea  after  tempest,  time-scarred  mountain  height ; 

Passive  as  Buddha,  single  as  the  Sphinx, — 
Yet  neither  that  sweet  god  that  seems  to  smile 

On  mortal  good  and  guile, 
Nor  wide-eyed  monster  that  into  Egypt  sinks 

And  Beast  and  Nature  links ; 
But  something  human,  with  an  inward  sense 
Profound,  but  nevermore  intense; 
And  though  it  doth  not  stoop  to  teach, 

It  will  with  each 

Attuned  to  beauty  hold  a  muted  speech ; 
In  its  Madonna-lidded  meditation 
Not  more  a  mystery  than  a  revelation ; 
Listen !    It  doth  to  Man  the  Universe  relate. 
O  Sentinel  before  the  Future's  Gate ! 
If  thou  be  Fate,  art  thou  not  still  our  Fate? 

For  those  who  fain  would  live,  but  must  breathe  on 

Prisoners  of  this  prosaic  age — 
Ah,  who  for  them  shall  read  that  page 
Since  winged  Shelley  and  wise  Emerson  are  gone? 


SAINT-GAUDENS  337 

VIII 

How  shall  we  honor  him  and  in  his  place 
His  comrades  of  the  Old  and  Happy  Race 
Whose  Art  is  refuge  Sorrow  comes  not  nigh, 
Though  Art  be  twin  to  Sorrow?    They  reply 
From  all  the  centuries  they  outsoar, 

From  every  shore 
Of  that  three-continented  sea 
To  which  the  streams  of  our  antiquity 

Fell  swift  and  joyously: 
"How,  but  to  live  with  Beauty?" 

Across  our  Western  world  without  surcease 
How  many  a  column  sounds  the  name  of  Greece ! 
The  sun  loth-lingering  on  the  crest  of  Rome, 
Finds  here  how  many  an  imitative  dome ! 
O  classic  quarries  of  our  modern  thought, 
What  blasphemies  in  stone  from  you  are  wrought ! 
For  though  to  Law,  Religion,  or  the  State, 
These  stones  to  Beauty  first  are  dedicate, 
Yet  to  what  purpose,  if  we  but  revere 
The  temple,  not  the  goddess?— if  whene'er 
The  magic  of  her  deep  obsession  seem 
To  master  any  soul,  we  call  it  dream? 
Come,  let  us  live  with  Beauty! 


338  SAINT-GAUDENS 

Her  name  is  ever  on  our  lips ;  but  who 
Holds  Beauty  as  the  fairest  bride  to  woo? 
The  gods  oft  wedded  mortals :  now  alone 
May  man  the  Chief  Immortal  make  his  own. 
To  Time  each  day  adds  increment  of  age 
But  Beauty  ne'er  grows  old.    There  is  no  gauge 
To  count  the  glories  of  the  counted  hours. 
Flowers  die,  but  not  the  ecstasy  of  flowers. 

Come,  let  us  live  'with  Beauty! 
What  infinite  treasure  hers !  and  what  small  need 
Of  our  cramped  natures,  whose  misguided  greed, 
Hound-like,  pursues  false  trails  of  Luxury 
Or  sodden  Comfort !    Who  shall  call  us  free — 
Content  if  but  some  casual  wafture  come 
From  fields  Elysian,  where  the  valleys  bloom 
With  life  delectable?    Such  happy  air 
Should  be  the  light  we  live  in ;  unaware 
It  should  be  breathed,  till  man  retrieves  the  joy 
Philosophy  has  wrested  from  the  boy. 

Come,  let  us  live  with  Beauty! 

Who  shall  put  limit  to  her  sovereignty? 

Who  shall  her  loveliness  define  ? 
Think  you  the  Graces  only  three? — 

The  Muses  only  nine? 
Beyond  our  star-sown  deep  of  space 


SAINT-GAUDENS  339 

Where,  as  for  solace,  huddles  world  with  world 
(A  human  instinct  in  the  primal  wrack), 
Mayhap  there  is  a  dark  and  desert  place 

Of  deeper  awe 

With  but  one  outer  star,  there  hurled 
By  cataclysm  and  there  held  in  leash  by  law : 
If  lonely  be  that  star,  't  is  not  for  Beauty's  lack. 
She  was  ere  there  was  any  need  of  Truth, 
She  was  ere  there  was  any  stir  of  Love ; 
And  when  Man  came,  and  made  her  world  uncouth 
With  sin,  and  cities,  and  the  gash  of  hills 
And  forests,  and  a  thousand  brutish  ills, 

Regardless  of  his  ruth 

She  hid  her  wounds  and  gave  him,  from  above, 
The  magic  all  his  happiness  is  fashioned  of. 


IX 


KNIGHTS  of  the  five  arts  that  our  sculptor  prized : 

How  shall  ye  honor  him  and,  in  his  place, 

Those  others  of  the  Old  and  Happy  Race 

Who  lived  for  beauty,  and  the  golden  lure  despised  ? 

Painter  of  music,  Architect  of  song, 
Sculptor  in  color,  Poet  in  clay  and  bronze, 


340  SAINT-GAUDENS 

And  thou  whose  unsubstantial  fancy  builds 
Abiding  symphonies  from  stone  and  space ! 
Mount  ye  to  large  horizons :  ever  be 
As  avid  of  other  beauty  as  your  own. 
As  nations  greater  are  than  all  their  states, 
More  than  the  sum  of  all  the  arts  is  Art. 
High  are  their  clear  commands,  but  Art  herself 
Makes  holier  summons.     Ever  open  stand 
The  doors  of  her  free  temple.    At  her  shrine 
In  service  of  the  world,  whose  hurt  she  heals, 
Ye,  too,  physicians  of  the  mind  and  heart- 
Shall  ye  not  take  the  Hippocratic  oath? 
Have  ye  not  heard  the  voices  of  the  night 
Call  you  from  kindred,  comfort,  sloth  and  praise, 
To  lead  into  the  light  the  willing  feet 
That  grope  for  order,  harmony  and  joy? — 
To  reach  full  hands  of  bounty  unto  those 
Who  starve  for  beauty  in  our  glut  of  gold? 

How  shall  we  honor  him  whom  we  revere—* 
Lover  of  all  the  arts  and  of  his  land? 
How,  but  to  cherish  Beauty's  every  flower? — 
How,  but  to  live  with  Beauty,  and  so  be 
Apostles  of  Rejoicing  to  mankind? 


VI 
LATER  POEMS  OF  OCCASION 


A  MEMORY  OF  BRITTANY 


KNOW  you  drowsy  Pont  Aven, 
Once  the  shaggy  painter's  den, 
Still  beloved  of  painter  sleek ; 
Where  a  morning  is  a  week, 
Where  the  clear  stream's  litany- 
Older  than  old  Brittany — 
Murmurs  droningly  between 
Two  half-towns  of  gray  and  green 
Snugly  tucked  among  the  hills ; 
Where  a  dozen  lazy  mills 
Slowly  turn,  and  grudgingly 
Creeps  the  river  to  the  sea  ? 
(In  wakeful  nights  I  '11  sleep  again 
By  remembering  Pont  Aven.) 


343 


344  A  MEMORY  OF  BRITTANY 


AH,  ere  you  begin  to  scoff 
See  the  Pont  Avennaise'  coiffe, 
Snow-white  over  pink  or  blue, 
Gaily  set  upon  her  crown, 
As  though  she  set  her  cap  for  you ; 
While  coquettish  ends  fall  down 
To  the  wide,  ribbed  linen,  set 
Round  her  round  neck  brown  and  strong- 
Half  collar  and  half  epaulette — 
Making  Hogarth's  line  along 
Either  shoulder.     (Queens,  go  hide 
Your  envy  of  the  Breton  bride.) 
Breton  gallants  need  no  lure 
To  the  beechen  Bois  d'Amour 
Where  she  walks  so  light  and  free, — 
Bringing  to  my  memory 
Her  who  made,  when  all  had  gone, 
A  processional  of  one. 
(Heart,  when  thou  art  saddest,  then 
Think  of  her  and  Pont  Aven. ) 


A  MEMORY  OF  BRITTANY  345 


III 


BUT  there  's  something  more  to  say 
Of  our  Bretonne,  comely,  gay : 
Ready  to  the  calls  of  life, 
Joyous  mother,  faithful  wife ; 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  pity 
Lavished  on  her  by  the  city- 
Nothing  of  the  "Where?"  and  "Whence?" 
That  make  our  life  of  outward  sense 
An  interchange  of  discontents. 
Love  of  country,  love  of  soil, 
Face  of  patience,  hand  of  toil, 
Smile  of  kindness,  humble  faith, 
Good  for  life  and  good  for  death. 
Fail  the  harvest,  land  or  sea, 
Ne'er  shall  fail  her  industry. 
O'er  her  needle  she  will  bend 
As  her  comrade  and  her  friend. 
(Oh,  if  friends  prove  false,  shall  I 
Unto  Fate  or  Heaven  cry? 
No,  I  '11  courage  find  again 
By  remembering  Pont  Aven.) 


346  PRETTY  KITTY  PICKERING 


PRETTY  KITTY  PICKERING 

WHAT  a  curious  world  is  this — 
Things  we  crave  and  things  we  miss  ! 
All  the  men  are  dickering, 
Half  the  women  bickering, 
Moth- wings  caught  within  the  wax  keep  the  candles 

flickering. 

Commerce  and  society 
Bring  the  same  satiety. 
Love  alone  seems  worth  the  while !  .  .  , 
Yet  upon  how  few  may  smile 

Pretty  Kitty  Pickering. 

What  a  curious  world  is  this — 
Living,  dying,  for  a  kiss  ! 

Boys  at  lovers  snickering, 

Jilted  men  a-liquoring, 
Every  maid  upon  her  hand  longing  for  a  thicker  ring,- 

Finding  in  distraction 

Never  satisfaction. 
Yet  to  lose  love  were  worth  while 
Had  you  known  her  winsome  smile — 
Pretty  Kitty  Pickering. 


TO  A  MAPLE  LEAF  IN  AUTUMN  347 

TO  A  MAPLE  LEAF  IN  AUTUMN 

("We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf") 

How  like  to  Man  art  thou ! 

Canst  thou  thy  change  foresee— 
What  leaf  upon  the  bough, 

What  bough  upon  the  tree? 

It  was  but  yestere'en 

Thou  wert  a  loyal  part 
Of  Summer's  solid  green 

That  stirred  the  grateful  heart. 

But  Night  upon  thee  blew 

With  pale  and  frosty  breath, 
And  left  thy  natural  hue 

Aflame  in  glorious  death. 

Or  was  there  from  thy  birth 

An  ichor  in  thy  blood, 
Transmuting  the  dull  earth 

To  Autumn's  golden  flood? 


348  TO  A  MAPLE  LEAF  IN  AUTUMN 

Thy  going  is  not  grief : 

Thy  splendor  shall  but  make 

Soil  for  another  leaf 

That  follows  in  thy  wake. 

I  in  my  Autumn  hour 
Do  envy  thee  in  thine : 

Thy  joy-diffusing  power, 

The  year's  consummate  wine. 

The  light  of  yonder  tree 

My  keenest  hurt  doth  salve ; 

Better  the  gold  we  see 

Than  all  the  gold  we  have. 

When  my  green  strength  be  stayed, 
And  frost  shall  summon  me, 

If  like  a  leaf  I  fade, 

Oh,  let  me  fade  like  thee ! 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  FULTON  349 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  FULTON 
(LINES  READ  AT  THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  NEW 

"CLERMONT,"  JULY   10,   1909) 

RIVER  of  Plenty  and  the  Peace  of  God— 
Of  all  His  streams  the  chosen  since  His  feet 

By  thy  round  cliffs  our  new-world  beauty  trod — 
(Eldest  of  all  our  soil  His  face  to  greet :) 

Rejoice  anew,  O  River  of  the  Heart, 
To  have  in  human  glory  such  a  part ! 

From  out  the  heights  of  Fame's  diviner  air 
Unto  his  kind  this  message  and  this  call : 

Labor  is  Happiness  and  Hope  and  Prayer ; 
There  is  no  Progress  but  the  good  of  all; 

Of  every  bondage  Love  is  the  release, 

Nor  less  with  Time  God's  Plenty  and  His  Peace. 


350  THE  CALL  TO  THE  COLORS 


THE  CALL  TO  THE  COLORS 


ON  the  blood-watered  soil  of  the  Balkans 

A  Bulgar  lies  clenched  with  a  Turk, 
And  the  task  of  the  cannon  and  rifle 

Will  be  finished  by  fist  and  by  dirk. 
And  the  last  word  of  hate— ere  the  rattle 

Of  death  bids  their  enmity  cease- 
Does  it  call  to  the  banners  of  battle 

Or  call  to  the  colors  of  Peace  ? 


ii 


In  the  purlieus  of  sin-befogged  cities, 

Slow  food  of  neglect  and  of  pest, 
How  many  a  mother  lies  dying, 

With  to-morrow's  pale  scourge  at  her  breast ! 
And  the  bread-cry  that  serves  for  the  prattle 

Of  orphans —  (oh,  when  shall  it  cease?)  — 
Does  it  call  to  the  banners  of  battle, 

Or  call  to  the  colors  of  Peace? 


THE  CALL  TO  THE  COLORS  351 

ill 

I  hear  from  my  window  this  morning 

The  shout  of  a  soldiering  boy ; 
And  a  note  in  his  proud  pleasure  wounds  me 

With  the  grief  that  is  presaged  by  joy. 
I  hear  not  the  drum's  noisy  rattle 

For  the  groan  of  one  hero's  release : 
Does  it  call  to  the  banners  of  battle, 

Or  call  to  the  colors  of  Peace? 


IV 


O  ye  of  the  God-given  voices, 

My  poets,  of  whom  I  am  proud, 
Who  trumpet  the  true  and  the  real 

When  illusions  are  dazzling  the  crowd : 
Go,  turn  men  from  wolves  and  from  cattle, 

Till  Love  be  the  one  Golden  Fleece. 
Oh,  call  us  no  more  unto  battle, 

But  call  to  the  colors  of  Peace ! 


352  TO  NEW  YORK,  AWAKENING 


TO  NEW  YORK,  AWAKENING 

(READ  AT  THE  ALDINE  CLUB  DINNER  TO 

DISTRICT-ATTORNEY  CHARLES  S.  WHITMAN, 

NOVEMBER  22,  1912) 

O  CITY  of  a  thousand  towers — 
And  every  tower  a  city !    Seen  from  far, 
\Vhen  homesick  travelers  tread  the  lagging  ship, 
And  find  their  thought  enstatued  in  high  bronze, 
How  beautiful  thou  art,  how  strong,  how  dear ! 
Half-veiled  by  April's  morning  mist,  thou  art 
A  dream  of  Orient  fancy,  mirrored  white 
On  hospitable  waters.     From  thy  roofs, 
Like  bannered  army,  flies  the  cloudy  breath 
Of  onward-pressing  Commerce.    In  the  hush 
Of  brown  November  evenings,  thou  dost  flower, 
Before  the  sky,  in  constellated  light. 
New  power  has  brought  thee  beauty  new  and  rare. 
Sated  with  Europe,  our  still  hungry  eyes 
Covet  our  own.    And  as  we  look  with  pride 
On  rock-set  walls  we  say :  So  deep,  so  high 
Be  Freedom's  structure,  buttressed  by  the  law. 


TO  NEW  YORK,  AWAKENING  353 

Here  shall  the  Old  World's  poor,  the  Old  World's 

waif, 

Retreating  from  their  fate,  forever  find 
In  thee  the  refuge  of  an  open  door — 
A  fortress,  such  as  fearful  races  built 
In  the  dim  ages  on  securest  hills. 

Oh,  shall  this  vision  be  but  naught?— this  torch 
Extinguished?— this  world-hope  be  quenched? 
Is  this  piled  marble  meant  for  Manhood's  tomb? 
Is  there  no  Soul  within  these  iron  ribs  ? 
Is  there  no  music  but  the  clink  of  coin  ? 
Is  blood  on  every  lintel  ?    Do  all  doors 
Fall  open  only  to  a  golden  key? 
Shalt  thou  go  down  with  Babylon  and  Tyre 
To  fellow  and  grovel  and  batten  with  the  beast  ? 
No !  rise  from  sleep  the  giant  that  thou  art, 
And  break  the  bonds  of  long,  complacent  years. 
Think  on  the  Past :  its  heroes  died  for  thee ; 
Think  on  the  Future,  lest  it  spurn  thy  clay. 
Follow  the  vision,  listen  to  the  voice 
Beckoning  from  heights  trod  only  by  the  brave : 
Man  is  as  mighty  as  his  noblest  dream." 


354  TO  ONE  WHO  DESPAIRED  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

TO  ONE  WHO  DESPAIRED  OF  THE 
REPUBLIC 

PAINT  black  with  peril  what  the  Time  portends ; 
Breathe,  if  thou  wilt,  but  stifling  hopelessness ; 
Brood  on  Man's  swift  decline  from  small  to  less— 
The  beast  that  wallows  or  the  beast  that  rends : 

Yet  shall  the  Good  prevail, 

We  shall  not  fail  I 

Blush  for  our  country's  dignity  and  fame, 
Forgot  by  those  who  rob  us  of  our  pride ; 
Deplore  the  sleepers  at  the  altar's  side 
While  madmen  light  their  torch  at  Freedom's  flame : 

Yet  shall  the  Good  prevail, 

We  shall  not  fail ! 

Yea,  shudder  at  the  temple  strewn  with  coin ; 
Law  leaning  on  the  broken  sword  of  Force ; 
And  streams  of  weakness,  come  from  many  a  source, 
In  one  wild  flood  of  turbulence  to  join. 

Yet  shall  the  Good  prevail, 

We  shall  not  fail ! 


TO  ONE  WHO  DESPAIRED  OF  THE  REPUBLIC  355 

Hast  thou  forgotten  Heaven's  patient  plan  ? 
From  many  a  blacker  chaos  have  we  come. 
Nature,  a  million  heroes  in  her  womb, 
Doth  ever  answer  to  the  need  of  Man. 

So  shall  the  Best  prevail, 

And  we  not  fail ! 


356  THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG 

THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG 
(1863-1913) 


WHAT  if,  that  day,  when  on  those  tawny  slopes, 

Made  as  by  Mars  for  battle,  but  till  then 

Still  happily  unhistoric,  steeped  in  peace, 

Two  foes,  of  age-long  enmity,  drew  near — 

( Foes  of  torn  forest  and  of  trampled  field, 

Not  in  the  smart  apparel  of  parade 

But  long  bedraggled  with  the  toil  of  war, 

Will  matched  with  will,  courage  to  courage  set, 

In  tremulous  expectancy  of  fate, 

Each  with  the  hopes  of  millions  in  reserve ; )  — 

What  if,  while  strong  men  nearer  to  their  hearts 

Pressed  their  worn  amulets :  a  wisp  of  hair ; 

A  woman's  tear-stained  letters ;  some  small  toy ; 

The  penciled  tracing  of  a  baby's  hand ; 

Likeness  of  child  by  father  never  seen, 

To  whom  that  father  was  to  be  a  myth 

Told  by  a  lonely  fireside  through  the  years ;  — 


THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG  357 

What  if,  at  that  weak  moment  of  the  brave, 
Before  the  sign  of  serried  death  was  given, 
The  Angel  of  the  Future,  in  a  white  dream 
Of  morning  mist  that  blotted  out  the  scene, 
Had  swept  in  solemn  beauty  down  the  lines, 
Trailing  a  scroll  of  visioned  prophecy, 
Till  all  had  seen  that  field  with  second  sight, 
And  all  had  heard  her  words : 


"O  warriors,  stay! 

Unshotted  be  the  cannon,  sheathed  the  sword. 
Look  on  this  picture,  half  a  century  hence, 
When  ye,  the  tottering  remnants  who  shall  live 
To  mourn  the  comrades  who  to-day  shall  die, 
Shall  be  again  the  brothers  ye  are  now 
But  seem  not  now  to  be.    Look  close  ! 
Who  are  those  old  who  mimic  the  assault 
Ye  face  to-day,  crossing  this  very  ground 
To  meet  not  Death  but  Love?    See,  clasped  in  peace, 
Not  clenched,  your  hands.     Those  heads  of  gray  are 

yours. 

Time  has  outwept  the  colors  of  your  flags, 
The  strife  forgiven,  all  the  hate  forgot. 
Sires  of  the  not-yet-orphaned,  will  ye  die?" 


358  THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG 

With  such  a  vision,  slowly  fading  back 
From  dream  to  dread,  from  dread  to  dream  again, 
Could  one  have  given  the  awful  word  of  death, 
Or  human  hearts  obeyed  it? 

Yes,  ah  yes ! 

In  all  great  enterprises  of  the  soul 
The  immediate  duty  is  the  strongest  lure. 
Not  lightly  did  these  follow  the  red  trail, 
Not  for  adventure,  nor  for  murderous  sport, 
Nor  glory,  oft  more  sordid  than  grosser  gain ; 
But  for  the  stark  necessity  of  Man 
To  heed  his  conscience'  trumpet,  lest  he  die 
And  live  on,  dead !    So,  that  the  God  within, 
Who  haunts  our  coward  days,  might  be  appeased, 
With  war's  momentum  in  their  heated  veins, 
And  with  a  Hebrew  prophet's  certainty, 
Each  called  on  Heaven  for  justice,  and  rushed  on ! 


We  say  they  fought  each  for  the  Right  he  saw. 
There  is  but  one  good  greater  than  the  Right — 
The  imperishable  Love  of  Right.    That  stays, 
The  needle  of  our  destiny,  howe'er 


THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG  359 

Its  sentient  tremblings  momently  may  swerve. 
God  of  the  storm,  the  fog,  the  sinking  sea, 
Be  praised  for  that  deliverance ! 

And  yet — 

What  if  that  strife,  which  all  men  said  must  be, 
Solvent  of  error,  touchstone  of  respect, 
New  bond  of  strength,  need  never  to  have  been? 

We  doubt,  but  what  shall  ermined  History  say? 
Somewhere  in  every  devastating  storm 
Of  hungry  flame  that  sweeps  the  night  with  fear 
Once  lurked  a  primal  spark  not  hard  to  quench ; 
Perchance  it  smouldered  long  in  soft  neglect 
Till  came  a  breeze,  gentle  as  infant's  breath, 
And  piled  on  peril  ruin  and  dismay — 
Ashes  for  beauty,  as  though  patient  years 
Had  been  withdrawn  from  Time,  to  be  consumed. 
Of  our  dire  conflagration  who  shall  name 
The  careless  passer,  or  the  sleeping  guard, 
Or  those  who  left  the  danger  to  their  sons, 
Trusting  the  futile  trench  of  compromise? 
Ah,  name  them  boldly :  the  revered,  the  great, 
Firstlings  of  fame  in  every  patriot's  thought, 
The  sculptured  saints  about  the  nation's  fane, 
Their  faults  forgotten,  in  a  people's  pride. 


360  THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG 

Men  of  that  elder  day,  who  gave  us  life, 
Honor  for  what  you  did,  but  not,  alas ! 
For  what  you  left  undone.    For,  when  you  built 
The  nation's  temple,  hallowing  every  stone 
With  sacrifice,  you  knew  a  serpent  dwelt 
'Neath  its  foundations,  yet  you  took  your  ease 
And  left  the  poison  of  its  brood  to  spread. 
On  you,  on  you  the  blood  of  Gettysburg! 

in 

For  whom  these  fables?    Are  they  not  for  us? 
Are  there  not  other  serpents  that  demand 
The  firm  Herculean  grasp  ?    And  other  fires 
Mad  with  destructive  spirit  half  subdued? 
Must  Wisdom's  torch  consume  a  hundred  hills 
That  it  may  give  us  light  to  see  our  path 
Into  peace-haunted  valleys? 

Land  of  ours ! 

Not  less  they  love  thee  who  must  chide  the  faults 
Of  those  that  serve  thee.    Be  thou  wise  as  strong — 
Justice  to-day  thy  fortress  of  to-morrow ; 
Better  than  battleships  thine  own  Good  Will ; 
The  bond  of  all  thy  children  Equal  Laws, 
Their  pride  thine  Honor.     Not  unto  thyself 


THE  VISION  OF  GETTYSBURG  361 

Alone  thou  livest  but  to  Space  and  Time ! 
Lead  thou  thy  leaders,  lead  they  not  aright, 
That,  seeing  clearly  where  our  fathers  failed, 
We  leave  no  legacy  of  wanton  strife 
As  bones  of  prey  to  tempt  the  beast  in  Man, 
Lest,  surfeited  with  carnage,  sadder  days 
Shall  scorn  our  ashes,  and  impute  to  us 
The  squandered  blood  of  Gettysburgs  to  come. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED    FOR    FAILURE  TO    RETURN 
THIS   BOOK   ON   THE   DATE  DUE.   THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY     AND     TO     $I.OO     ON     THE     SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

AUG  24    1943 

AUG  26  1943 

Ch 

*a&3    ^ 

14  »A 

ISP* 

0ft<*«* 

* 

IDCT    S1984 

BfljraRfWG   5 

9S4 

:    an*  ocle,    otc  .      J68 


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